


Deviant Days

by Bananafan



Series: Detroit: Deviant Days [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Connor Loves Hank Anderson, Dbh Markus - Freeform, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Drunkenness, Emotional, Eventual Hank Anderson/Connor, Fetish, Fluff, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Hank Anderson and Connor On A Case, Illnesses, Kink, M/M, Murder Mystery, POV Connor, Post-Canon, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Sneezing, background character markus, sick Hank Anderson, sneezing fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananafan/pseuds/Bananafan
Summary: Hank and Connor are dealing with the post-revolution of the androids, and Connor's new deviancy. Conner is learning new things about himself, especially things that have to do with Hank. But their budding domestic life gets thrashed when a body turns up at Hank's favorite restaurant. Now Hank and Connor have to solve the case, as well as figure out what they mean to each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of a multi-part series I've been working on for this past year. Plot focused on a murder mystery involving Hank and Connor in a budding relationship.

It’s over. It’s actually over. 

What am I thinking? It’s been over for weeks now. But…it doesn’t feel that way.

_Feel._ I’m still getting used to that, too. Feeling things. Having emotions. Being _deviant._

It used to be such a dirty word. The kind of word people sour and spit out. The only human I know that never used the word like a spear against me is Hank Anderson. He was skeptical at first, distrusting androids in general, but the Lieutenant has had a soft spot for deviants since I knew him well enough to break into his house.

My head swings over to the recently repaired window. A smile cracks my demeanor. Another thing I’m not quite used to yet. Hank tells me that I look ridiculous when I try too hard to smile.  
Speaking of…

I lift myself from my position on the couch. It is still early. Well, ‘Hank’ early. It’s 9:30, and I have been awake for two hours. Sleep isn’t something I ever thought I would need. It’s not really a necessity for me physically, being an android, but the flood of emotions and awareness tends to overwhelm me if I go too long without some sort of break. Sleeping helps. I suppose that’s why humans like it so much.

Even though Hank doesn’t normally get up until past 10, sometimes 11, I feel a pull to start the day. I shift uncomfortably, dipping my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. It is technically Hank’s hoodie, but he said I could have it.

It smells like him.

That’s another deviant feeling, I’m certain. Lately, I’ve been having…strange feelings that pull me to want things. Humans call it attraction. I don’t understand it fully myself, but I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, especially Hank. I suppose I could talk to Markus about it. He is the only android I know who has experienced romantic feelings. But I can’t just pull Markus away from everything just to ask him about attraction and feelings.

_Hey Markus, sorry I know you’re conducting a peace treaty with the nation, but I just wanted to ask you about this guy I think I like…_

No. That would be completely irresponsible. I can handle this on my own.

I think.

My weekly deviant meetings sort of help. Hank insists that I go to them. He is quite adamant about it, telling me how confusing emotions can be and how he himself isn’t ‘qualified’ to coach me through ‘what five-year-olds learn’. I usually don’t talk during those meetings. Other androids have much more complex things on their minds. Our emotion coach allows us to stay after the meetings to talk about individual problems, but I haven’t chosen to participate in that. I would rather get home ASAP to see Hank.

He has done so much for me. More than enough. After androids were freed, I had nowhere to go. Hank has let me stay in his home. I sleep on the couch since it won’t cause me physical discomfort. It hurts Hank’s back. I don’t want Hank to hurt. So, I sleep on the couch, except on the rare night I have nightmares. But in those cases I don’t sleep. Neither does Hank, since I tend to get…vociferous in the middle of the night.

I still think about the time Hank spent the night calming me after a particularly rousing nightmare about a deviant and a rooftop…leftover trauma from past experiences. We fell asleep on the couch watching a recording of the national dog show.

Overall, I think I’ve done well to earn my keep. While I’m not technically assigned to Hank anymore, I still help him investigate. There was confusion at the precinct about how to compensate androids, and so we are not required to take jobs but we can volunteer for now. So, I go with Hank sometimes. Okay, every time.

I make my way to the kitchen and flick on a light. Hank’s stove is electric, but even with the simpler option I am unsure of how cooking works, really. My function was detective work and crime simulation. Cooking? Not in my programming. I don’t know appliance intricacies like how high to set the burners, or recipes like how much salt to put in a dish.

But Hank did teach me how to make bacon. “Long as it don’t crumble to ash in my mouth, I’ll eat it”.

And so, I get out a package of bacon and begin to cook it. Grease crimps the slices of salted pork and crinkles them into waves. It takes a while – longer than I think it should have. But I make a bulging plate of bacon, all levels of doneness decorating my pile. I don’t think I have the hang of it yet.

It is now just past 10:30. I want Hank to eat warm bacon. I set the plate on the counter and stare at the dog staring at me and drooling.

“Sumo, that is Hank’s bacon. Do _not_ help yourself.”

Sumo gives me a beg with a dip of his head. If anything could deviate an android, it is the pleading look of a bacon-starved canine.

I frown. “I’m sure Hank will give you some when he gets up.”

There. Perfectly reasonable. I leave to fetch Hank.

I politely knock at the door. “Hank? It’s me, Connor.” I open the door. I don’t know why but when I step inside the room it feels warmer. As if the heater is running on extra for this room. Hank is face down on a pillow, arm splayed out, fingers wrapped in a sheet – wait, no. Is that a piece of cloth?

His breathing sounds off as well. Perhaps I should analyze him.

Hank Anderson. Seemingly sound asleep. Heart rate, slow. Breathing through mouth, slight apnea. One leg under covers, one leg out. _Hot and cold?_ Glass tipped over on nightstand. _Nightcap gone wrong?_

I go to his bedside, making sure not to disturb him before I lean close enough to brush fingers across his brow. Sweat clings to his flesh like a sheen.

Then, his meaty grip wraps around my wrist and he jerks me away from his body, sitting up stiff and alert.

He blinks at me and my heart pounds.

“Connor…?” his bushy brows knit in confusion. “What are you doin?”

He releases me and I straighten.

“I was merely checking your temperature. You seem to be sweating in your sleep, as well as experiencing mild congestion.”

Hank waves me off with a deep growl. “I don’t need my temperature checked. I’m not a fuckin child.” He pushes himself fully upright and rubs fingers over the bridge of his curved nose. The way his voice sounds, as if it’s a chore to speak, tugs at me. All scrapey and… well I have no life experience with illness but I have plenty of data on it. Hank is definitely exhibiting symptoms of…something. And it’s making me feel again. A deep and clutching emotion, as if fingers were wrapped around my heart and squeezing.

“Hank, you should let me take your temperature. I can diagnose-”

Hank makes a gruff noise as he brushes past me to stand. “No thanks, Doctor Connor.” He stretches arms over his head and yawns, but the action makes him wince. He must have a sore throat as well.

His ‘doctor’ jab is a hit against practitioners as well as myself. Hank doesn’t like seeing doctors, especially for, as he calls it, “booboo kissing.” He made that reference when I had to give him stitches last week from a work-related gash.

It’s up to me again. And so I reach for his forehead, this time acting as quickly as I can. My fingers brush hot skin and I get the buzz of a reading before he can knock me away. 100°.

“What the fuck, Connor!?” he snarls at me, impaling me with a hard stare. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

I blink at him, unsure of how to respond. My chest feels like it’s constricted. Are my biocomponents under pressure?

“Hank you have a budding fever.”

“Don’t give a shit,” he says as he throws on a large tee.

“You should take fever reduction medication and get rest-”

“I’ll be fine, Connor. Ain’t my first cold.”

Hank turns to leave the room. I follow, feet padding across the carpet to shadow him. Hank takes a moment to pat Sumo on the head before he sees the state of the kitchen and pauses. His eyes fall onto the mound of cooked bacon, and he cranes his neck to squint at me.

“The hell is this?”

“Bacon. I know you like bacon. So I made bacon.”

Hank sighs. “Only bacon?”

“Yes.”

“ _All_ the bacon?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head.

I tilt mine, unsure of the problem. “Have I done something wrong?”

Another sigh. Hank looks at me and I can see his face soften. “Nah.” He runs a hand through his rangy hair and looks away. He takes two of the bacon slices and sticks them in his mouth, then slips one to Sumo. The dog inhales the meat, licking at Hank’s fingers for good measure.

I wait at the counter, fingers drumming on my thighs, watching Hank mill around the kitchen. I like watching Hank. Humans fascinate me sometimes. He opens the fridge and I hear bottles clink. I stiffen, knowing what he is reaching for.

“Hank, you shouldn’t drink when you are ill.”

Hank links his gaze with mine, hands still busy pulling out a beer. He stares at me as he pops the top. Then he takes a swig and moves to grab the plate of bacon. He chows another slice on his way to the round table, moving to take a seat, chair creaking as his weight is pressed into it.

I am not sure what to say that wouldn’t upset him more. I don’t think he should be drinking, but if I say too much…will I make him mad? I don’t like making Hank mad.

“Dammit Connor,” he snaps at me, but not with the usual anger he directs at, say, Gavin. It’s more of a frustrated gnarled sound. I flinch at the swear, but he continues with a softer sound. “Sit down. I know you want to.”

I do want to, but I still struggle with etiquette. Human interactions are still awkward for me. I rarely know whether or not it’s okay to _want_ something.

I take a seat across from Hank.

I watch him eat his bacon for a minute, doing my best to avoid scolding him for drinking, but every sip he takes makes my hardware whirr. I’m not the best at hiding my emotions, either. After polishing off most of the beer, Hank fixes me with a look.

“What?”

“N-nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. I watch as Hank drags a knuckle across his sculpted hooked nose, the gnarled joint flashing the luster of moisture at me. He sniffles. My ears pick up the sound as if they were dedicating the noise to the score of a symphony.

What is happening right now?

Of course, I know the answer. I can feel my LED flickering with every breath Hank drags in. Each puff he releases. I count three.

Then, _“HrRRRSHuuueh!”_ Hank bows forward, spritzing the back of his hand, decorating his skin with moisture from his expulsion.

_**Error 504** _

My processing unit blips. I lose temporal function for a moment. What am I looking at? Hank. Why? I think he just…sneezed? I run a diagnostic. I am functioning within parameters. But…something made me freeze up. Something gave me an error. What was that? Why am I sitting here again?

“Connor,” Hank’s gruff voice snaps me back to the present. “What are you staring at?”

I swallow, a reflex I’ve picked up from being a deviant. “S-sorry Lieutenant.”

Hank’s brow knits. He’s looking at me like I just rebooted. His voice is all curiosity and gravity. “You haven’t called me Lieutenant in weeks.”

I realize what he’s talking about and abruptly begin to feel bad. “S-sorry…Hank. I…” I’m not sure what else to say. There is no reason for my malfunction. Is there a glitch in my programming? Well, obviously yes. I am a deviant. But, could there be more? My diagnostic came back: sensory overload. What could be overloading me? I am sitting at the table watching Hank eat bacon. I do not see or hear anything that would cause a strain on my systems.

Yet…something did.

Hank once again snaps me out of my thoughts. “What’s on the itinerary today?”

I access the station’s cloud. “There is a witness for the serial killer case.”

Hank scoffs. “It’s not a fuckin serial killer.”

I sigh. We’ve had this discussion before. “There is no MO, no pattern, the deaths have all been random.”

“I’m tellin you, serial killers are rare as fuck. You get one in a blue moon. It’s also not our case. Gavin will pitch hell if we interfere.”

I nod. That is true. “We could check out that woman’s missing android.”

Hank fixes me with a calculating stare. “You know where it probably went.”

I do know. If it is a deviant, it would be on its way to find Markus.

I look at the bacon plate, nigh untouched since his first few pieces. Perhaps I should have cooked something else.

“We could…” I fish the room for something, eyes locking onto a pinned menu of a local restaurant, “go get some Chinese food.”

Hank seems to perk up at that. “Now you’re talkin.” He stands and slides open a drawer to snag some takeout napkins and stuffs them in his pocket with a liquid sniff.

At least I am getting him out of the house before his second beer.


	2. Deviant Days Part 2

We arrive at the Long Palace, a buffet slash takeout restaurant with what Hank describes as “eat-em-off-the-floor noodles”. We get a seat near a wall with bamboo posters and lights cradled in colored paper. The hostess seats us and takes a small pad of paper and pen.

“Drink?” she asks pointedly to Hank.

“Coke, please.”

“Pepsi okay?”

Hank waves at her. “Sure.”

She turns to leave, but a double palm against the table draws her back.

“Excuse me,” Hank gestures to me, “you didn’t get my friend’s order.”

The woman’s eyes widen, worry clouding her face until her gaze flicked to my humming LED.

“Android,” she says.

Hank gives her a look. It is a masked smile, one that I have come to know as the ‘do what I fucking say, please’ look. He does that a lot, especially when dealing with people he doesn’t know.

“Can you just ask him if he would like something? Thanks.”

She looks at us like Hank just told her to serve his dog at the table. But she points at me with her pen and asks, “You want something?”

I look to Hank.

I have only eaten a few times since becoming deviant. It is not normal for androids to eat. As with sleep, we don’t need it. But we can. Our bodies process food and convert it into biofluid, and with time it circulates through our system and breaks down.

I only ate my first meal when Hank demanded I try tasting something, shortly after the revolution. We both wondered if deviants could find pleasure in food.

We do.

Now Hank likes to take me places to try different foods and get an idea of what I like.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I order. That is what I usually do.

The hostess nods and gives Hank one last wary look before zooming away.

“C’mon,” Hank begins to stand, “let’s go get our grub.” Before leaving the table, Hank reaches for one of his napkins and presses it against the wing of a nostril, tilting his head down and sipping a breath. He smushes the napkin further under his nose and over his mouth to muffle a rough, _“HmmmFSHH!” ___

____

____

I stare, unable to engage my synapses to blink or look away. It’s as if I have some kind of short.

Hank is sniffling as he rubs his nose with the napkin, sawing back and forth. The rest of the room fades for a moment, and it is only Hank standing there. And me.

“You comin?” he asks, looking rather disgruntled.

I find my voice. “Lieutenant, you are ill. It might be befitting for me to get your food - so that you don’t infect others at this establishment.”

Hank stared at me as if I’d spoken another language. “The fuck do you keep calling me Lieutenant?”

“You are missing my point, Hank.”

He grumbles. “I’m gonna go get my food.”

“Hank,” I reach for the sleeve of his jacket, pinching it lightly and tugging. “Please?”

He stares at me for a minute, and I can’t help but notice that his nose is flushed a subtle pinkish shade.

He sighs, “Fine.” Hank meanders back to his seat and mutters something about his ‘fuckin noodles’.

“I won’t forget them.”

I go to fetch us plates. I pile on noodles, sesame chicken, and four wontons. The sauce smells thick and rich and I find myself having to resist the urge to taste just a small bite before I get back to the table. I am carrying the plates back, when a loud crash in the other room gives me pause.

I look over the counters to see a congregation of people milling around the bathrooms. Someone presses a hand against the bathroom door to open it, but something is preventing the door from opening all the way.

Then a woman gasps. I hear the word “dead”. My LED flashes yellow, but my processor kicks into overdrive. An attack?

I ditch the plates and hurry towards the commotion. And there it is. A circle of people around a dead body.

This is what I am made for. Analyzing a scene, piecing together a puzzle, discovering clues. It’s like overclocking my processor. It feels like I can go a mile a minute. I feel comfortable. That must sound horrible, but it is the reason I was created.

I move over to the corpse, doing my best to analyze what had happened and reconstruct the scene. The victim had fallen on the way to the bathroom. A chair is dislodged. He must have grabbed it and taken it down with him when he stumbled.

No. Not stumbled. I catch sight of froth dotting the lips. Poison. No internal heart problems, no abrasions. Neck or throat is swollen with whatever reaction he had to his meal.

Hank joins me, standing upright and spreading his arms, holding his badge in one hand. “Alright everyone, Detroit police. Don’t be alarmed, if you can help it. I know this isn’t the best night for most of you. Came here to have a nice dinner. Well, we’re going to need you all to cooperate and please stick around for a statement. Then you’re free to leave, and I’m sure you’ll get compensation for your night.”

The crowd thins a little, some of the people attempting to sneak away. Hank snaps a finger at them, looking for all the world like he’d rather be in bed, and firms his congested voice. “You might have misheard me.” He pointed to the carpeted area. “Stay.”

As Hank attempts to corral the citizens, I find an employee to question. Technically we can’t hold these people here, not without clearance from DPD, but hopefully Hank can keep them around and get statements and names before they realize they are free to go whenever they like.

I send a report to the station, asking for backup, and hoping that won’t include Gavin.

A frightened-looking hostess is staring over at the body, chewing a nail.

“Excuse me,” I get her attention. “Was there anyone who could have tampered with his food? An employee?”

She gapes at me like a deer in headlights. “I…” she holds her palms up, “No English well.”

“What language do you speak?”

“Mandarin.”

I swap to Mandarin and ask her the same question. She seems to relax a bit, speaking in her native tongue, but she is still scared. She tells me that there were two servers in that section.

Hank approaches me and asks what I learned.

“There are two major suspects. One android, one human. We are unsure if the android is a deviant.”

Hank nods, swiping a fist over his nose. I notice something in his fingers, a wadded napkin. He flips his hand over and braces his hand over his face, catching a grating _“HRRSSH-euu!”_ into the now ragged napkin. 

He says something afterwards, but I don’t process it. i’m blipping out again. I watch him swirl his nostril with the spent cloth and read his expression - angry and haggard. 

“Connor, are you listening?” 

Damn. I wasn’t. “Sorry, Lieutenant…”

“Goddamn this night, I swear. I’m going to handle the cits. You handle the staff.”

“Gotcha.”

I head into the kitchen, the kind hostess leading me, and introducing me as ‘android police-man’.

I look at them both, one a small dutch woman, portly and beady with hands clasped in front of her. The other an EX300 android. Red hair and freckles dotting a blank face. I scan him, but I’ll have to connect with him physically to check for deviancy.

“My name is Connor,” I reassure them, “I’m here to ask you both a few questions. If you answer, you will get to leave here and go to your homes.”

The woman blinked up at me, hoping for more, but I focus on the android first, stepping closer to ask, “Are you a deviant?”

The android shows no sign that he is. No ticks. No shifting. He simply states in a calm voice, “No.”

“It’s okay if you are,” I show him my LED, pointing to it, “I am a deviant. I’m only here to–”

“It’s not deviant,” the woman says. “I been workin with it for a year. Never a sign.”

Hm. Interesting.

Many androids had deviated over the past month. But not all of them. Markus has been doing his best to convert any non-deviating androids he can, but there has been some backlash lately. Some of them were happier with their humans.

I still feel a pull to free this one. If I did, could it still work here, though? That was the problem. Humans are still scared of deviants. This establishment might not want a deviant working for them. I don’t even know how many strings Hank had to pull to let me keep helping with cases.

But…it seems unfair to leave him like this. Missing out on life. If I convert it, there will be no going back. It wouldn’t be given a choice.

I decide to convert it. It should at least be free, and this way I can ask permission to probe its memory.

I grasp its arm, my flesh receding as we touch.

“ _Wake up_ ,” I say as softly but firmly as I can. Markus does it way better.

The EX300 blinks, face falling into a mixture of awe and confusion. He looks at me, then the other woman.

“Wilona?”

The woman nods. “Hello Erik.” Her head tilts. “How do you feel?”

“I…” The EX300, Erik, furrows his brow, “I’m not sure.”

It might have been a bad time to do this, but at least Wilona seems okay with Erik now being deviant.

“Erik,” I get his attention, “My name is Connor. I am a deviant working with Detroit Police. I need you to answer some questions honestly for me. Can you do that?”

Erik nods but his LED flashes orange.

“Don’t be alarmed. We’re looking for someone who may have tampered with the food or drink at the table of a man named Tulé Placena.”

“Tamper? No, this is a buffet. The people serve themselves. Only the cooks would have access to the food beforehand, and there’s no guarantee that someone in particular would eat what was poisoned.”

I lift my brow. “You knew I was talking about poison.”

Erik slanted his gaze. “I deduced the obvious.”

Hm. Snarky.

“You both had no access to his food?”

“I didn’t say that,” Erik replies.

Okay. Now I am getting pissed. I lean in closer, giving him all of the frustration in my eyes. “Did you poison any food in this establishment?”

“No. And if I did, are you confident that I would tell you the truth, _officer?_ ” The inflection on ‘officer’ drips with sarcasm. I’m about done with this guy.

“You are acting suspicious,” I warn him.

“I’m the only android working here. Your people are going to suspect me no matter what I do or say. So excuse me for being suspicious of _you_ ,” he brings finger up to airquote, “Officer.”

So that was it. He doesn’t believe that I am actually a police officer, and if he does, he isn’t about to respect me for it. I can’t blame him. I worked hard to bring deviants to justice not a month ago. That was my function. I don’t even have a badge to show him anymore.

“What was your function?” I technically asked him, but I look at Wilona when I do.

She smooths her smock, speaking with a twinge of an accent. “He served drinks with me and cleaned out the food trays. We don’t really do much with the fresh food. We wait tables and deliver checks.”

“I see. But both of you still had access to this food. Will you show me where this man was sitting?”

“”Of-of course…” Wilona starts off back into the dining area.

I shoot Erik a warning look. “If you attempt to leave, I will find you, and you will become a prime suspect.”

He rolls his eyes at me, but doesn’t move. I let Wilona take me to the now empty table where Tulé was seated with his family.

“This was his seat,” Wilona points to the space with a cola and a nearly clean plate. It looks like there are a few leftover pieces of orange chicken, sticky rice, and clam shells. I taste the soda. 80% pepsi with 20% McCormick Vodka. He might’ve spiked his drink when he received it.

I begin to sample the leftovers on the plate. Ah, what Hank would say. My gaze slides from the plate to peer around the establishment and look for him. I spy him scribbling on a folded piece of paper with a flower-tipped pen. The same pen the hostess had tucked in a mug on her stand. Hank is speaking with the customers near the entrance before allowing them to leave. Backup hasn’t arrived yet and we can’t make these people stay.

Worry furrows my brow as I watch him from afar. He is leaning against the wall, showing signs of dizziness and overheating. I can spot a slight flush around his neck and cheeks, even from here. Then he dips to the side, face crashing into the bend of his arm. I can’t hear it from here, but I know what it sounds like. I resist the strange urge to play the sound from my banks to match Hank’s actions.

One thing is certain: I need to get him home.

But first, I dip my fingers in the sauce and taste.

There it is. Normal components of orange sauce and a potent blend of organophosphate. My eyes zoom up.

“The chicken…” I hustle over to the buffet area, scanning the differently arranged food trays for orange chicken. I find it sandwiched in between the broccoli beef and the coconut shrimp. I dip in for a sample.

The sauce is rife with organophosphate - and it is concentrated. I sample the dishes surrounding the chicken. None of them contain the poison. Only the orange chicken.

I look back at the body. High levels of perspiration. The body looks bloated. The foam dribbling the lips looks dark and thick. The addition of alcohol must have sped up the process of toxicity. This means though…

“Hank!” I shout, feet carrying me to the front of the restaurant. I send a message as I’m sprinting, contacting the nearest hospital and tell them the situation.

When I get to the front, I nearly slam into the doors, hands moving quickly to throw them shut with a raucous _bang!_ I spin to face a troubled crowd.

“Has anyone eaten the orange chicken?”

A few people raise their hands.

“Are you experiencing any discomfort? Sweating? Bloating? Blurred vision?”

Hank puts his hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“The chicken was poisoned.”

A few people in the crowd gasp. Most of them look alarmed now. Perhaps I should have kept that between Hank and myself.

“I’ve called an ambulance. They will be here shortly.”

“We need to find the kitchen staff,” Hank says.

I nod and address the crowd. “Please do not leave the premises. You will receive medical aid very soon.”

Hank and I hurry to the back of the restaurant where the kitchens are loud and balmy. At the stoves are three employees. A cursory scan tells me they are all human.

“Please line up for questioning,” I order them. “You are all suspects in a murder case.”

The cooks exchange frightened looks with each other. I really should learn how to put things more delicately.

Hank comes in, sniffling into a damp napkin I recognize from earlier. Perhaps I should offer him a new one? 

“Found the cooks?” He’s trying not to show it, but I can tell he’s feeling worse than earlier. The teary gaze, the flush of his face, the subtle flare of his nostrils just before he pinches them, the–

“Connor,” he grunts impatiently.

Whoops. I was staring at him instead of answering him.

“The cooks are all human.”

“I didn’t ask,” he brushes it off. Everyone can be a murderer in Hank’s eyes. He shoots them all angry looks that are inflated by his grouchy condition. “Alright punks, listen up. I want to go home. I’m sure you do, too. So let’s make this easy on all of us, alright?” He folds his arms and looks smug. “Somebody’s poisoned the waterhole.”

Hank’s reference didn’t go over my head (since he sat me down and forced me to watch Toy Story among other popular Disney movies of his time). But no one else looks amused.

Hank rolls his eyes with a look on his face that says he is tired of being the oldest in the room.

“Connor, wanna tell them what’s going on?”

“Yes, Hank,” I step up to explain. “I found highly concentrated levels of organophosphate in the orange sauce. It was out in the buffet tray, and I need to assess if-”

_“HhhrrrFFssheeu!”_

My head swivels to Hank who has dipped into his cupped hands to catch another forceful sneeze. My processor stalls. I barely hear someone say ‘bless you’ to Hank and him responding with a groggy ‘thanks’ as he searches his jacket pockets for more napkins.

I wonder if I should say it, too.

Of course, humans commonly bless each other after a sneeze because of their superstitious background involving spirits and gods. Would it be strange for androids to pick up this tradition? Something in my wiring is screaming against drawing attention to what just happened. Like it would be wrong to point out that I noticed him sneezing.

What is this emotion?

“Connor,” Hank is looking at me like I just said something strange. Had I said all of that out loud? No, I’m certain I didn’t.

I run a diagnostic. Everything is functioning within proper parameters. So…why do I keep blipping out like this?

Hank looks impatient now. “What’s goin on with you, Connor?” he sounds more worried than angry, but the inflection of urgency is still there. “Aren’t you going to tell us about this poison?”

“S-sorry, yes Lieutenant….Hank. Ahm,” I feel a tingling in my cheeks, but I push on. “I…I found traces of organophosphate, in the orange sauce. It was once used in pesticides but was banned for its toxicity. Paired with the alcohol a customer was consuming, it aggravated the process and expedited the symptoms.” I look at the cooks now, seriousness stilling my countenance. “He is dead now.”

One of them puts a hand to her heart. Another begins to fidget. The third looks as bored as a highschool student in class.

“Hear that?” Hank rumbles. “Dead guy. Poisoned food.” He rocks on his feet. “Whodunnit?”

I browse the kitchen, gaze falling on a collection of pots bubbling in the back of the stoves. A cloud of steam floats above them, dragged into a vent above the stoves. The soft humming can be heard above the gurgling of the pots and their contents.

“Which one is the sauce for orange chicken?” I ask.

“That one.”

I follow the gesture to a great silver pot, thick viscous sauce steaming within. I peer inside to see lumps of breaded chicken jutting from the otherwise smooth surface, the occasional bubble frothing forth.

“Is this fully cooked?”

“Yes. It’s ready to serve.”

I hold my hand above the liquid. Steam rises from it, dotting my palm with condensation. The temperature seems to be around 185 degrees F. It could cause partial damage to my skin cartridges, possibly my inner structure. But, if I don’t sample this now, we’ll need to use CSI equipment to do so, and that would take hours. I could do it right now, with just a taste…

“Connor, wait–!”

I ignore Hank and dip my finger in the liquid. It seethes at me, but I quickly take in the sample and make a reading. It’s negative for organophosphate.

“Dammit, Connor!” Hank is suddenly next to me, taking my hand and inspecting the burn mark. The tip of my finger is white and bare, the flesh fading from my plastic. Hank snarls angrily at me. “What did you go and do that for!? You could have hurt yourself,” he takes my chin in his hand and pinches my mouth open to check for internal damage.

“I’m fine, Hank,” I say, shaking my head to wave him off. “It was the quickest way to find out…and it’s important. Hank, there’s no poison in it.”

Hank blinks at me, “Then it was poisoned after it was brought out to the buffet.” He turns back to the cooks. “Who delivers the food from here to out there?”

The helpful one responds. “Sometimes we do. Sometimes the waiters do, especially on busy nights like this.”

“So, the waiters brought this food out there tonight?”

She nods.

Shit!

Someone is lying. I need to find the waiters. Hank and I exchange a look. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. He jerks his head at the door and I go. I back out of the kitchen and hurry towards the staff room, but I pause in the dining area.

Something is wrong. The people who were congregated around the entrance are gone. I listen for any sign of activity. Flashing lights catch my eye out of the window. I can hear bits of conversation outside.

A swift check out the window shows an ambulance and a few police cars. They must have just arrived.

I rush into the staff room and a swear flies from my lips.

The android, Erik, and the woman, Wilona, are gone


	3. Chapter 3

I look around. I might be able to figure out where they went if I just had some time.

But…my mind goes to Hank. He should be eating. Resting. Not chasing criminals and then having beer for dinner. I need to get him home.

Hank hadn’t gone far. He is leading the cooks out the front doors and into police custody. I rush out to meet him. Rain prickles my face and neck. That is unfortunate. Hank shouldn’t be out in the rain. I tap him on the shoulder and his face falls when he sees my expression.

“The waiters are gone.”

His eyes widen. “Well go catch them!”

“Hank,” I put hands out to stop him. “It is raining and you are ill. We need to go home.”

“Yes, do go home Hank. You look _dreadful_.” The voice behind us belongs to Gavin. I do not like Gavin. He is always rude to Hank and treats me as if I’m…well, he doesn’t believe in good deviants.

Hank sighs and it looks like he really wants to give Gavin more than two cents. But he plasters on a calm demeanor and turns around. “Good to see you made it out, Gavin. Taking over our crime scene?”

“ _My_ crime scene,” Gavin folds his arms. “I was assigned this one.”

I step forward. “The cooks are suspects in this case, but the prime suspects are the escaped waiters. We don’t know where they went, but one of them was an EX300 named Erik. The other was a woman named Wilona, age 43.”

Gavin scoffs. “Of course, another android murder case.”

I shake my head, “I highly doubt it was the android. It was not a deviant until after the man’s death.”

Both Gavin and Hank look at me now.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Hank said. “Did you…convert it?”

Heat wells in my chest. “I did…”

Hank closes his eyes and twists his lips. “Connor…why didn’t you say something first…”

“Wow,” Gavin folds his arms. “Your android fucked up the crime scene and the suspects. This is my surprised face.” He waves another officer over to him. “Let us handle it from here, okay? You’ve done enough.”

“No way,” Hank growls. “Now moreso, we need to stick this out.”

“Well, you’re not on the case. _I’ve_ been assigned this, not you. You being here was happenstance. Go home, Hank.”

Hank is fuming at this point, and probably angry with me as much as Gavin. It pains me to think Hank is upset with me, but I still need to get him home out of the rain.

I take Hank’s sleeve and tug him away from Gavin. He gives me an eye and follows, if reluctantly. I catch a noserub out of the corner of my eye and it twists my wiring. He’s trying so hard to breathe without labor, but I can tell his body is dragging on him. His vision even begins to waver when he joins me.

“Hank,” I peer worriedly at him, “I notice you have been sluggish, avoiding contact with others, nursing a headache, and I believe you are…a-about to-”

_“Heh-RRSHHH!”_

My core pumps hard and fast as if I am preparing my muscles to run.

“Hank please…” I squeeze out the words. “You need to get home. Don’t let Gavin bait you into staying. DPD is here and I can get regular updates on the case. We can get takeout on the way home.”

Hank ruffles his hair and slides a palm over his face. “Yeah yeah, alright. I’m fuckin starving anyway.”

I shoot a glare at Gavin, who I can overhear telling people that I messed up by converting an android. That might come back to bite me, but for now, I need to focus on Hank.

Hank grabs my hand, I thought to lead me away, but he brings it up to his face instead. He inspects the fleshless tip of my finger and I fall into a frown.

“We need to get you fixed up.”

“It’s just a finger, Hank. I’ll be fine. I can order parts for repair any time.”

Hank gives me a sideways look. “You really think Cyberlife is going to be sending out parts or repairing deviants right now? No, we’re going to the android shop near main street.”

I do not need immediate attention. Hank does.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hank warns. “We get you fixed, we get food, we go home. My car, my rules.”

Of course he would say that.

Hank lets one of the officers know that we are leaving to repair me. I roll my eyes. It is hardly an emergency, but I won’t be talking Hank out of this anytime soon.

Lights spin atop the now several police vehicles and ambulances parked in the cluttered lot outside of the restaurant. The lots around this place are barren, roped off with crime scene holograms and warning signs.

Hank and I reach his car and we get in, clothes squishing over the seat with moisture from the rain. Hank puts his hands on the wheel, not starting the car quite yet. I am about to ask him what’s up before he looks at me with a somber expression. “Look,” he eyes me with seriousness, “I know you think you fucked up in there. Converting that android. Those waiters getting away. But that wasn’t your fault. You did what you thought was right. I might’ve done the same. We were alone with a building full of people. We did what we could. Alright?”

The corners of my mouth lift in a smile. Hank looks out for me, even from myself.

“Thank you, Hank.”

We drive to a small strip center near the town centre 20 minutes from Hank’s house. There is a small windowed store we’re looking at. It is a mom and pop android repair store. One that Hank loves to do business with, because they actually care about the androids they are working on. They treat us like people. Once I became deviant and news spread about living androids, Hank went online and sought out specific companies, stores, and restaurants that welcomed deviants.

I could never repay his kindness, especially when he won’t let me take care of him in a state of clear malaise.

The owners of the shop are Myrtle and her husband Harold. They are an elderly couple who have been supporters of living androids since before the revolution. Myrtle is standing at the counter when we enter and flashes us a smile, her hair upswept in a grey bun with a pin spearing the side.

“Hank. Connor. Good to see you both! What can I do ya for?”

“Afternoon, Myrtle…” Hank’s voice is laced with congestion and he sounds out of breath. He steps afar from me, allowing me to make my way to the counter before him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pinching the collar of his shirt, tugging at it as if he were too warm. My gaze locks onto him as his head tips back, lips parting, chest rising. Then, he sags with a deep exhale, his fingers relaxing on his shirt. He pauses, and then the next breath he takes stiffens his body, dragging in air again as his collar is pulled taught.

His nostrils flare and he looks like he’s about to –

“ _RrrSHH! Ahhe-SHEU!”_ he buries his nose into the folds of his shirt, thick releases making the cloth ripple. He stutters a slew of coughs into his fist and presses in on his chest as if it were painful to take in air.

“My goodness,” Myrtle exclaims and my head snaps to her, a tinge of blue igniting my cheeks as if I were caught doing something perverse.

“Hank Anderson,” Myrtle purses her lips at him, “Have you fallen ill? Tch, look at how you make poor Connor worry! He is beside himself.”

I blink at her, then look to Hank.

Is this worry? Is that why I cannot focus when I see him wrestling with his illness?

I’ve felt worry since becoming deviant – not the same as having concerns about a case or danger. Worry has a more…negative feeling to it. My therapy sessions sometimes call it “anxious” and have done well to describe it. But…this feels different in a way. As if the worry is twisted, entwined with other emotions I’m not familiar with.

Perhaps I should speak with someone about it during my next session.

“What do you have for me today?” Myrtle asks me, pulling me from my stupor. I correct myself and place my hand on the counter, allowing Myrtle to take a look at the damage.

“Oh hon,” she lifts my hand and rotates it supine. “What did you do to yourself?”

Hank growls, “Dipped it in a vat of boiling liquid.”

She tuts at me, then her gaze flicks to the side. “Harold!”

Her call brings an older man to us, greying facial hair shaggy and curled into a ponytail. He is wiping greasy hands on a matted rag as he shuffles out of the back of the shop.

“What’ve we got today,” he stuffs the rag into a pocket and joins Myrtle. “Hank!” he nods at the detective, “How are ya?”

“He’s not feeling well, Harold,” Myrtle shoots Hank a look as if she knows how poorly Hank cares for himself. She probably does.

“Ah, on the job?” Harold asks.

“Sorta–”

“No,” I firmly interrupt Hank. “We’re going home after this.”

Hank frowns. “You promised me noodles.”

“You’re getting worse, Hank.”

“Am not. And if you don’t follow through with your noodle promises, how can I trust you in the future? All noodle promises will be compromised –”

“Fine. Noodles after this. Then, home.”

His eyes fixate on me, a cracked smile growing under his facial hair. “Thank you, Connor, how gracious.”

Myrtle is rifling through the counter, flipping cabinets open and shut, head bobbing up and down in her search. “Well, Connor, looks like I’ll have to order you a new part.” She gives me soft eyes, fingers curling over the flesh of my hand. “Will you be okay for 24 hours? Are you in pain, dear?”

“No, Myrtle. I feel fine.” It was only partially a lie. Without the flesh on my digits, I am less sensitive to touch and more susceptible to cold. But it is just two fingers, for one day. I would be fine as long as I don’t dunk my hand in ice water or hot tea.

“You start getting uncomfortable, you come back in and I will fit you in a a glove. It won’t have great range of motion, but it’ll last you until you get your part.”

“Thank you, Myrtle.” I turn back to Hank. It’s noodle time.

An energetic Dark Moor song blasts through the car speakers as we drive on our way to one of Hank’s favorite ramen places. It has a drive-thru. Our orders come in little reusable takeout cups that Hank likes to use for tupperware. They’re microwave safe.

“Have you tried Pho?” he asks me.

“Hank, you have seen to every meal I have consumed.”

“Course. Well, we’ll have to get that next time. Best broth you’ll ever drink.”

We arrive at Hank’s and set up to eat at the coffee table. Hank wants to relax and play video games. He just acquired an old Playstation 4 and downloaded a game called Wand Wars. He hands me a remote and starts up co-op. I lift my brow to him as if to ask ‘You sure?’

He rolls a shoulder, clearly getting ready for me to kick his ass.

The music begins, a funky trill, classic of vintage video games. Hank loves the classics, and this one predates androids.

Another of his favorites is a game called Kingdom Hearts. When I expressed interest in it, he waved me off saying, “Not even an android could follow the plot.”

So, we play Wand Wars. A buffed up pong game where your avatar flies around a 2D screen knocking magic at one another.

Hank shoots a few bursts my way and I slam them back, drawing the magic to energize it before launching it back at Hank.

“Goddamn, how do you always catch it…” he mutters even though he knows why.

My leg slides to the side and grazes Hank’s. Being so close to him triggers a tinge of longing, wanting to touch him more. My eyes flick to him and he catches me looking at him.

“You alright?” his face falls into concern, eyes wrinkling with worry. “You’ve been kinda not yourself today. Do you need comfort?”

My insides squirm. He asks me this sometimes when I’m feeling touch-starved. It wasn’t a thing before I became deviant, but as time goes on, I find myself craving physical contact. It started small, a brush of skin here. A hug there. But when I have nightmares or a bad day, Hank will be there, patting me, rubbing my back, even holding me sometimes when the images get real bad. He wants to help me get through my emotions.

I nod, scooting closer and he puts his arm around my shoulders so that he could hug me while we play. It’s nice that Hank is larger and taller than myself; he can do things like this without much hindrance.

My therapist says humans do these sorts of things when they are in relationships, but my research shows close friends will engage in physical contact quite often. It does make me wonder sometimes, though, if there could be more between us.

We sit, Hank framed around me as we patter on our controllers best we can, even if I am a bit distracted by his warmth. And his breaths. Something that is so simple, an action humans don’t even need to think about doing, but it is such a graceful thing. Sometimes I like to just listen to him breathe, feel the push of his chest against my back. The slow intake of air, only jarred by the grunts of frustration as he hammers on the controller.

Wait. The rhythm of his breathing doesn’t match the timing of his virtual struggle. His body tenses up as he drags in rapid breaths. His palm presses against my shoulder and he starts to move me out of the way.

“Connor,” his voice hitches when he says my name and blue rushes to my face. “ _Ghh_ -Gonna sneeze…”

I should be moving. He’s asking me to move out of the way. But I don’t even wiggle. I freeze up like some sort of virus has invaded my system, and all I can do is listen to Hank.

_“Heg-XXUE!”_ he pitches off to the side and I feel his entire body jolt from the force of the attempted stifle.

“H-Hank…” my whisper doesn’t make it past my lips.

He holds up a finger, nose pink and poised and ready. “One more…”

My insides gush. I can only hope Hank doesn’t notice how blue I am because–

_“HekKRRSHH!”_ He doubles down, head drooping, body crashing into the bend of his arm. He grates out a groan and brushes a hand over his flushed face. “Fuck…ugh…” he sniffles and scoots away from me now, having released me into the cushions of the couch. His eyes are heavy-lidded and red as he shifts to a recline across two of the cushions. “I need a fucking nap.” He peers at me and must have seen something in my face. Something that reflects the ache I’m feeling for him. 

“You can stay…if you want,” he offers as he moves to shut off the game.

“I would like that,” I say honestly, but I rise quickly from my seat so that he doesn’t see my embarrassment. “Let me get you a blanket.”

I take the opportunity to distance myself from Hank. I can’t express how hard this is because all I want to do is stay with him, get closer and…

No, I need to clear my head. My insides are all twisted up and I feel like the slightest push could shove me off the edge. I definitely need to talk to someone about these feelings. 

I stride towards the wall here blankets are haphazardly folded along the shelf and I grab a knitted one. I didn’t make this one, but I know how to. In theory. I’ve researched it as a coping mechanism for emotional stress. Perhaps Hank and I could take a class.

My phone buzzes while my arms are full of blanket. I shift around to pick it up, swiping my undamaged finger across the screen.

“This is Connor,” I say firmly.

“Connor,” a familiar voice comes over the line. “We’ve got a situation.”

Well, so much for that nap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor are summoned to the station to answer for their involvement at the restaurant murder scene.

“Whawazat?” Hank mutters from the couch.

“I am needed at the station.” I explain calmly.

Hank groans and rolls up to sit, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Alright, fuck. Let’s get this over with.”

I put up my hand to stop him, palm pressing his chest so that he is relatively blocked from standing. “They only asked for me. You should stay and get some rest.”

Hank squints at me, a frown twitching his beard. “They want you there, but not me?”

“Yes.”

Hank sputters. “Well they’ll be pleasantly surprised to have me. Let’s go–” he moves to stand but I push him again, delicately but firmly.

“Hank, you should stay. You’re very warm and…” I browse the flush of his cheeks, the sheen of sweat gracing his forehead. I reach for his brow, my damaged fingers barely grazing his skin before he knocks me away.

“Fuck, Connor, I don’t like this.”

I freeze, worried that I crossed a line. “W-what?”

Hank scoots away from me and uses my brief pause to skirt around to the coat rack, holding his head with a soft moan.

“I don’t like that they asked for you. Just you. It’s…not right.”

I struggle to understand why Hank is perturbed by the office’s request. He is not really the type to get jealous about work. If the department needs me for the case, I should go help as much as I can.

“I’m going,” Hank demands as he pulls on his coat. “And you’re gonna deal with it.”

“I highly suggest–”

“Suggestions noted,” he snaps. “Now c’mon.”

I fear making him angrier; something is clearly bothering him, so I drop it. But it’s obvious during the drive that he is not feeling up to this. I curse myself for using the damaged hand to check his temperature – I couldn’t get a reading.

The rain has picked up since we were at the restaurant, and the wipers are on full blast as the car zooms down the highway, splashing waterfalls ring the tires. Hank swerves a few times on the drive, his eyelids look like they weigh a ton and he seems to be breathing rather heftily. On top of that, he keeps rubbing his nose and sniffling. I can’t stop my eyes from shifting to stare at him. The slight aquiline of his nose, bent just so that his knuckle fits snugly underneath the tip. The flare of his deep nostrils, rounding them out as he drinks in each congested sniff.

“Hey,” he grunts. I watch his palm smush against his septum. “Hand me ahh…hih-!” he is pointing to something but my eyes are locked onto his face. The dip in his chin, the struggle he’s pitted in keeping his eyes open and on the road.

Failure is imminent.

_“Hh-RSHH!”_ his hand crashes into his face to cup the sneeze. _“AeSHH-oo!”_ a vociferous sniff follows but he doesn’t release his face. The car pulls to an abrupt stop, slurring me forward.

“Give me a hand here, Jesus!” he snaps, shouldering me out of my daze.

“Uh–” I don’t often lose my train of thought and when I do, it’s usually worse than your average human because I have no excuse for my defects. I am designed to run smoothly and seamlessly, and with each haze I experience, I grow less certain of myself.

I sputter an apology to Hank, along with some “uhms” and “I”s as I suddenly realize what he’s asking for. I fumble with the glove compartment, feeling my cheeks heat with thirium as I fish for the pack of tissues within. Hank always has tissues around, but I only recently noticed this fact when I became deviant. I haven’t yet asked why.

I manage to pluck a few tissues from the pack, handing them to Hank so that he can clean up enough to use his right hand again. I watch him dab at his pink nostrils, sliding the cloth under his nose, using a pinched thumb and forefinger to rub circles around the base.

I watch him and he doesn’t notice me because he is so focused on fighting the indisputable itch that is wrinkling his countenance, causing his watery eyes to squint and his breath to catch and–

_“Heigh-SHHRRrrh!”_ the power behind that sneeze rips at the tender cloth, splintering it into shards that he crumbles with a curse.

He turns to me for another and our eyes lock onto each other. I realize how close we suddenly are. That I’ve been slowly leaning towards him, enticed by his rousing display. I look into his blue eyes and heat fills me.. A primal urge tugs me, one I’ve never felt before, but one that is so familiar. As if I’ve known something for a long time and just now connected the dots. Completed the puzzle. Solved the case.

He stares at me. The rain pounds against the windows, blocking out everything else happening outside this car. Hank’s lips part, his brow furrowing, “Conn–”

I silence him with my lips on his, thirium flushing my cheeks as I meekly thrust myself at him. Rain pours against the car, its sound drowning me in sensory haze as Hank fills my lips.

I have often imagined how my first kiss would go. Since becoming deviant and speaking with other deviants who have found love and lust I admit, I have had…ideas. I would say something flirty, a little sassy. Wink maybe; I like to wink. And my partner would come to me, have eyes for only me, feed me the same coy look that I have, and we would both know. The time would be right.

This kiss is nothing like I imagined.

Hank breaks away from it looking confused and stunned as if I had slapped him instead. Then, he just stares at me, eyes crimping. I pull away slowly, as if dragging an anchor with my chest.

I can hear the silence. I can _taste_ the silence. It hangs between us, thick and viscous, rooting our words in its tarry depths.

I want to say something. My core is hammering, my components whirring with anxiety spilling throughout my body.

“Hank, I…” my mouth cannot form words. I have nothing that can explain why I just kissed Hank.

The sharp blare of sirens makes us both jump and Hank quickly swipes at his phone. It’s the ringtone for the Captain. He looks at me, asking with his eyes and I sigh. He lets out a small growl and answers it, sounding annoyed.

I scoot back against the car door, wishing I could just vanish into the seat. I don’t know what to do or say. I cannot explain my feelings at all. I don’t even know why I chose this moment to deliver that kiss when Hank is clearly not well, and likely not in the mindset to receive advances.

Damn, I fucked up. My fingers close around the door handle. I need to leave before he finishes this call, get my bearings, figure out what to say.

I peer outside. We’re at the station. I hope to rA9 that nobody saw us kiss. I throw open the door and shuck out into the rain. The droplets patter my head and shoulders as I rush to the entrance, the soft fluorescent lights aglow in the dreary evening, mirroring how I feel at this moment. I manage to get inside, only partially drenched and I wander into the office center where the desks are situated.

The station is a mess. Not mess _y_ per-se, just rowdy and raucous. There are too many people talking and things have gotten a bit harder to mull through since I’ve become deviant. My therapist chalks up the slowing of our processors to the fact that we are now feeling emotions about every piece of information we take in.

I hear Gavin talking – I have to process what he says plus the negative emotions I feel about him and how his words drive me and make me feel. I hear an argument in the break room – I not only process what is being said but I find myself empathizing with one or both parties and it stalls my reactive instinct to counsel or advise.

Is this why humans find it difficult to complete tasks? It must be a contributing factor. When at work with your core encumbered by emotions. I know that feeling, too. I can’t stop thinking about Hank. Worry, stress, regret. Hope.

“RK800,” a sharp voice calls my model number. I peek up to see Sergeant Dayfield waving me up to him, a snide Gavin behind him.

I head towards him, allowing enough time for Gavin to move on before I step up to speak with the Sergeant.

“RK800–” he begins as soon as I am within earshot.

“Please,” I push myself to correct him, “Connor.”

His eyes squint but he waves it off. “Fine. Connor. We have been informed of the case involving a poisoned man at the Luck Star Buffet. You were there during the incident, along with Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Correct?”

I nod. “Yessir. We were in another booth when–”

He clips me off, “You mentioned an android in the kitchens. To Detective Reed.“

“Yes…”

"You converted this android?”

“I…” I balk. I am about to get in trouble. I know it.

Dayfield doesn’t wait for me to complete my thought. “RK800, we are placing you under suspect–”

“What?!”

“You will be placed in a holding cell until–”

“I am not going into a cell.” My shoulders square. “I am not guilty of anything. I did nothing wrong.”

“You tampered with evidence–”

“I freed an android. I liberated a person.”

“That android could have given us valuable information about the case. Now it could be lying to us.”

“So could the humans involved,” I argue.

“Androids are programmed to tell us the truth.”

My gaze hardens. “It sounds like you’re upset that it has a choice now.”

Dayfield sighs. “That isn’t what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words.” He shakes his head, “Regardless…”

“What’s going on here?” Hank’s rumble interrupts Sergeant Dayfield and we both slide our gazes to his approach.

“H-Hank…” my throat goes dry when I see him.

Hank gives me a look I cannot interpret before locking Sergeant Dayfield with a stare. “What were you saying, Sergeant?”

Dayfield stiffens, “We are putting Connor under arrest–”

“Like hell you are,” Hank growls. “Why?”

“His interference with the android has made him a suspect.”

“Oh bullshit,” Hank rolls his head. “Are you kidding me? _Connor?_ ”

“Yes and we are taking this very seriously. I have already started the paperwork–”

“No,” Hank points a blunt finger at the Sergeant, “You know what the cool thing about being Lieutenant is? I outrank you. _And_ Detective Reed. And if I’m not mistaken – which I’m not – I was supposed to be assigned all cases involving deviants. Therefore,” Hank folds his arms and looks at me, “Connor, would you help me question the suspects?”

Damn he’s good. I almost forget how restless I feel because damn he is _good_.

A smirk spreads across my face. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

 

We have three suspects who came willingly into custody for questioning. Hank takes the first and I wait in the viewing room to watch. He sits across from a gangly young man with ripe cheeks and a mop of spindly hair. He has a small triangular tattoo on his wrist. I can barely make out a blocky **A** inside of it. He looks overly harmless but that doesn’t mean quack when dealing with murder.

“Mister Phillips,” Hank begins.

“You…you can call me Chester,” the young man says hands fidgeting in his lap.

“Right. Chester,” Hank spins the files on the table to view them better. “What are you duties at Luck Star Buffet?”

“I’m just a busboy. I clean tables, sometimes I bring out trays. Nothing big.”

“Well,” Hank sniffles, “today was big as I’m sure you…” he curls a knuckle under his nose, using it to crush the underside. “S-scuse… _hhh_ …”

I recognize the straightening of shoulders, the way his body stiffens as he turns and draws in a quiver of a breath. My compressor whirrs staring at him facing me – well, facing the mirror, but I have full view of his contorting features…the way is eyes wrinkle at the sides when he vices them shut. And rA9 save me, the rounding of his nostrils in a voracious flare.

_“HhRRR-Kshheu!”_ his fist catches the brunt of the sneeze, but another follows a rich inhale, _“HFFSH- **EU!** ” _he digs at his congestion with a sniffle, sawing a finger under his nose before returning to face forward in his seat.__

____

____

He says something I don’t hear because my ears are still ringing from the damn sneezing. My head is spinning. My limbs feel distant from my body. I want to move, to wriggle, to squirm; I don’t know what to do with my hands. I keep reimagining the scene over and over, the ill display burning into my mind white hot and solid.

They are talking again. I’ve missed a good chunk of conversation thinking about Hank. I really need to get a handle on…whatever this is.

Chester is speaking. “Naw man, I may hate people, but I wouldn’t kill anybody! I still gotta go see the new Avengers 14 movie.”

Hank chuckles at that. “Alright well kid, we’re going to keep you a bit longer in case you remember something, although telling us now will really help you out.”

Chester lifts his shoulders, “Dunno what to tell ya, brah.”

Hank grumbles as he stands. “Great. ‘Brah’ is coming back around.”

“What’s wrong with brah?”

Hank scoffs, “Didn’t like it in 2008, don’t like it now.” He takes Chester back into the waiting area and I fetch the next suspect. It's my turn to interrogate a redheaded woman with heavy makeup and round cheeks, her smile unfaltering as we head into the interrogation room.

I access her file from my memory banks. She has only one mark on her criminal record. Petty theft under $100, from five years ago. Likely unimportant.

“Sheri Briggs.” I sit across from her and she hikes her leg, long nails grooming a lock of curls.

“Yes, darling, that’s me~” She winks and sticks out her tongue playfully.

Does she not realize that she is the suspect of a murder case? I take a seat and flip through the files on the deceased.

“You were on a date with Nigel Hargold at the time he was murdered.”

A hand touches her chest and her face falls somber. “I was, yes. First date.”

“And you know he was poisoned.”

“So unfortunate,” she frowns. “I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

I eye her. “This is an interrogation. That is exactly what I am getting at.”

“Huh,” she chuckles, “well you’re wasting your time playing with me.” She purses her lips. “Unless…you _want_ to be playing with me.”

Is this woman seriously hitting on me in an interrogation room? What the hell is she thinking? Of course, I have no business judging her after kissing my sneezing best friend. She did come here willingly so I should at least respect that. 

“Ms. Briggs, have you heard of organophosphate?”

“I don’t know what that word means,” she says matter-of-factly. “Layman’s terms will work better on me.”

I mentally calculate her response and posture, looking for anything that might give away that she is lying. She isn’t letting any tells go, but she might just be that good. Still, my gut tells me her presence at the murder was happenstance.

I am silent for long enough to bore her. She leans over the table, a smirk spreading on her face. “Tell me,” she laces her fingers under her chin. “Is it true deviants can experience sexual attraction?”

_What?!_

As floored as I am with her question, I can’t help my eyes flicking to the mirror, out of habit, to the spot where Hank usually stands. I can’t see him through the one-way glass, but I fear he’s there, listening. I kick myself for even responding to her question.

“Ohhh, you do~” her voice snaps my head back to her attention. “How enticing. Is it someone out there?” she quirks her brow at the glass.

I slap my hand on the table, body rising in anger. “This isn’t about me. This is about you killing a man!”

The corners of her lips twitch and she laughs. “You’ve got nothing on me. And…you’re blushing.”

I wrench my face back, hiding it from the window. After the events in the car, this is just too much. I ride my roiling frustration and stand, striding around to the other side of the room.

“Why did you kill him?”

She picks at a fingernail. “I didn’t.”

“Then what are you hiding?”

She impales me with a look. “I want a lawyer.”

And that’s it. I’m done. I cannot get anything out of this woman if I wanted to. And I really do not want to be in here with her anymore.

I pick up the files and head to the door, exiting the interrogation room. When the door slides open, Hank is ready to take the suspect back to her holding cell – process her request for a lawyer. I glance at his face but nothing I read on him tells me whether or not he heard the conversation within.

However, I do see Gavin exiting the viewing area, shooting me a teasing look.

Gavin heard, too?

He hooks a smirk my way and pats my shoulder. “So you have the hots for Lieutenant Anderson.”

Oh rA9 save me, I do _not_ want to have this conversation.

Gavin scoffs, “Look, plastic,” his finger finds my chest and I resist the urge to slap it off. “I’m gonna warn you once: step the fuck off my case. Or I’ll tell this whole station about your little crush.”

I swallow. This sort of threat wouldn’t have bothered me in the past, but now? People already treat me poorly for being a deviant android. What would they say if they knew about Hank? How would that impact Hank himself?

“Oh,” Gavin rolls his head back and exhales, “Another thing,” he looks me straight in the eye, “Don’t waste your time. You of all people know how Hank Anderson feels about androids. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

The words feel like someone just ripped out my pump regulator. Gavin makes a noise under his breath and walks away.

It isn’t true, is it? Hank came around about androids during the revolution. He has been kind to me and treats me like…a _person_.

_But that doesn’t mean he wants to date an android_.

Have I already pushed too far? Are things going to be weird for us from now on? I can feel myself panicking as Hank approaches.

“Come on,” his hand rests on my shoulder. “We need to talk.” Did his thumb just rub my back? Or is it some subconscious manifestation of my longing. I try to ignore the stiffness of my spine but I feel tingly from the stress.

When we get back outside, Hank spills into a fierce coughing fit that shakes his whole body, straggling his form from a bent state as he palms his chest and winces. I don’t say anything this time. He’s heard enough from me.

We sit in the car, the silence heavy and thick like an oak door separating us. Hank squeezes the wheel with a rumbling exhale.

“So, are you gonna start or shall I?”

I cringe, unable to look up from my knees. I feel like I have to punch and drag each word from my throat.

“Can we drive, please?” I ask. I don’t want him to look at me while I tell him this.

Hank’s voice is light, amicable. “Sure.” He gears the car to move and we pull out onto the street.

I wring my hands and squeeze my knees. I can’t sit still. Hank clears his throat, eyes flicking to me. I need to be talking. The only sounds right now are the spattering of rain on the roof and the squeak of the windshield wipers attempting to keep the road from blurring.

“H-Hank…” Punch. Drag. Where do I start? Where did this all start?

“I’ve had…these feelings lately. Well, for a while. I don’t really know what they are, or how to deal with them.”

Hank nods, keeping his eyes on the road. “You’ve been acting strange today. Is it…because of these feelings?”

I should tell him. I don’t know why I haven’t done so yet. I’ve been feeling rich with shame but Hank has never made me feel like I should be shameful of anything.

I want to tell him.

“Hank, I–”

My body jerks forward. Tires squeal. Twin horns blare as Hank shouts an oath. And then I feel the impact of the oncoming car.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events unfold as Connor searches for Hank after the car accident and the two have to work out their feelings for each other.

Sirens.

I see the flashing, if a bit blurred between streaks of rain.

Where am I? Am I lying in the street? What just happened?

I was talking…to Hank. And then…

The snap of anxiety gives me clarity. _Hank._

Where is he? I move my head, looking around the rain stricken asphalt. The car, Hank’s car, is crushed against another similar sized car. It looks like I was thrown from the vehicle. Did I not put on my seatbelt? Strange for me. Why…

I blink away the glare forming on my lenses and attempt to sit up. My entire body feels slow, like it’s lagging.

“Hank!” I call, forcing myself up from the ground. Broken glass litters the pavement making it difficult to stand. I feel lighter than I should; something is off but it’s not my concern. Hank is. The sirens belong to an ambulance. It is dark but the flashing red and blue light up the street and I can see cars, traffic backed up on the freeway making room for a half dozen police cars surrounding us. The silhouettes of medical workers bustling around the crash site spike my emotions. They are rolling people into the back. I can’t see who’s on the stretcher.

“Hank–!” I rush towards them but an officer stops me, blocking my way.

“Android,” he says firmly “Tell me–”

“Hank! Hank Anderson!” I shake, my eyes flying around the scene. “Where?” My throat feels constricted. I have to squeeze the words out in bursts of panic. “Did they get him out?”

I don’t know what the officer sees in my face but he eases his tone.

“Deviant…” he tugs at his radio, speaking into the crackling device. “Deviant android here asking for…Hank Anderson.”

I don’t have time for this. I move to get past him, lifting my arm–

Or attempting to. I look down at where my arm should be. It is gone. Only a splash of blue checkers my suit.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I can get a new arm. I can’t get a new Hank.

“I need you to stay–”

I shoulder past the officer, limping towards the closing ambulance doors.

“Hank!” my voice is swallowed by a crack of thunder and the engine of the truck. I need to get into that vehicle. I spin to the officer. “Let me go with him, please!”

I don’t know what the officer says to me. I can’t hear over the pounding of my core, the shriek of rain hammering my head. But he lets me climb into the passenger’s seat of the ambulance. The driver doesn’t seem to mind; they are more focused on getting through traffic than talking to me. At least I’m here.

The ride feels like it takes forever. I can hear the scrambling of the EMTs in the back over the roar of the sirens above. It makes me nervous. I keep wanting to ask what’s going on but I know it won’t help.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. I shouldn’t have asked him to drive. We should have had our distracting talk somewhere stationary. Now…this is my fault. What if–

No. Don’t think it. Hank has to be fine. Has to be.

I do my best to repair what I can of myself in the car but it is clear: I need new parts. A lot of them.

After a debilitatingly long drive (so it felt) the ambulance finally pulls up in front of the hospital and the EMTs get out to admit Hank into the building.

I amble down from the passenger’s seat hoping I will be able to follow the stretcher in the back. It is an uproar. A medical team meets the EMTs outside where they convey information about the patient. I catch snippets of medical jargon and “he’s losing blood,” which makes me freak out.

“Hank!” I round the stretcher, brushing past one of the doctors who tried to block me from seeing the damage. My fingers grip the bar on the side and I look into his eyes…

It isn’t Hank. Another person is in this stretcher.

My head swings to the EMT. “Where was the other ambulance?”

“Two were carrying patients. The other one should have been here before us.”

I spin and run full out into the hospital but I don’t make it far. My left leg gives out and I crumple to the ground. My fist meets the concrete and I snarl as if it had personally offended me. Two more doctors scurry to my side to assist me, helping me stand.

“I need…” I blink past a haze of panic. “I need to find Hank Anderson.”

“You need to get inside,” the doctor helps me hobble to a chair just in the entrance and tells me to sit down. They roll the injured man away and I am left sitting in a busy hall, doctors and nurses skating by on their own rushed agendas.

The fluorescent lights pierce my eyes, baking the hall with their hot bulbs. Doctors speed up and down the tile, their coats billowing behind them as they flip through charts or call out to each other, barking orders and codes, voices echoing through the hall, stinging my ears with static overload. Too much is going on.

I try to flag someone down but it is clear I won’t be able to get any answers until I seek them out myself. I test my leg with a little weight and manage to hobble across the hall where a nurse’s station is accumulating people in scrubs.

I place my available hand on the counter, smearing blue blood over the white countertop.

“Uh, my apologies,” I say to the nurse who is glaring at me. “I need to find Hank Anderson. He was just in a car accident and brought here and…” my gears are rapid, panic igniting my senses and numbing me to everything except my dark thoughts. “Please.”

The nurse looks at his partner and frowns. “He won’t have a chart quite yet then. I can ask surgical, but they won’t know until the paperwork is done.”

“Is this the android?” A woman’s voice snags our attention. She is tall, taller than me, wearing salmon scrubs and a lab coat. Her cheekbones are high and a smile is spread across her face.

“M-My name is Connor.” I say. “Did s-someone ask for me?” Hope licks my tone.

“You are the talk of the town, you know,” she says. “You haven’t been here long but I heard you’re in rough shape, Connor.” She offers a hand. “I’m Doctor Leslie and I can help you.”

She’s being nice, and I know this, but the only help I want right now is in finding Hank.

“I need–”

She holds up her hand. “I know you are looking for someone but we need to get you fixed up too. Come with me. I have android parts.”

I hesitate. Look at the nurse. He shrugs.

“We’ll let you know when we find your friend.”

“Hank–”

“Anderson. Yes.”

I pick up the doctor’s gaze and she nods. She leads me down another hall, pausing briefly to throw a fellow employee a thumbs-up. I notice something when her sleeve moved. I saw a mark. It looks like a wrist tattoo. I don’t know why I fixate on it, but it’s something to distract me from worrying about Hank. It’s not working very well.

We enter a room, a basic patient wing where she offers me a seat. “Anywhere you’re comfortable.”

I sit on the small couch near the window, the pleather crinkling under my weight. I look down at my feet. My shoes are roughed up as well, my pant leg torn, my jacket slick with dirt and blood. I hope Hank is in better shape than I.

Doctor Leslie rummages in a closet where I can see android parts lining the shelves within.

“What is your model?”

It takes a moment for me to recognize what she is saying. “RK800.” I hope my processor isn’t damaged.

She hisses. “You’re new – gosh. What is compatible with you…hm…”

I list off a couple components she could use and she finds me an arm and connectors for my leg.

“We’ll getcha fixed up real good. And that should give them enough time to find your friend.”

I nod and let her operate, trying not to think of how Hank is somewhere in this hospital, hurt, possibly dying…

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Oh,” I wriggle out from under the mound of worry. “We were…driving. I,” I grunt as she pries open one of my electrical windows. “I was talking to Hank about something stressful. He must have been distracted because we crashed.”

“Oh hon, I’m sorry,” she plugs the new connectors in and my leg whirrs. I can move it fully again. “Where did the accident happen?” she asks, moving onto my arm.

“It was on uhm…” I try to remember where we were, but I wasn’t paying attention at the time. “I don’t remember.” My head dips and my throat catches. I want to remember this. I want to think about anything except Hank right now.

“Connor,” she pats my back, “Are you okay? Functioning properly?”

“Yes, sorry,” I shake off the gut-wrench. “Do you, uhm…do this a lot? Operate on androids?”

She laughs. “I get asked that a lot. ‘Why do you do this?’ ‘It’s not your job.’ ‘They’re not human and don’t feel pain.’ Well, I want to help every _living_ person. You are a deviant, right?”

I nod.

“Then you are alive and therefore I will do what I can for you.”

I shrink at that. Not many people have accepted deviants as people – as living beings. For a doctor to put my well-being at the same level as a human, that made me feel both elated and guilty. Because we _don’t_ feel pain, and we _don’t_ require as immediate attention as humans. But still…

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sure you make many androids happy with your perception on us.”

“Sweetie, I would be so lucky to help out you poor deviants. I can’t believe how this world mistreats you. It’s wrong.”

I want to engage her, I do, but my mind keeps crawling back to Hank. Where could he be? How badly is he hurt? Is he even here? My gears start to pick up with the incline of my emotions.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble,” the doctor pats my fresh arm. “You’re worried about your friend, huh?”

I nod. “I would like to see him as soon as possible.”

“Well,” she purses her lips, “let’s go and see if they’ve found him. Is everything working okay?”

I move my limbs, testing their range of motion and security to my body. “Yes, thank you.” My clothes are still tattered, the sleeve ripped off with my arm and my shirt is untucked and bloody. But I still have my tie. I straighten it, flattening out the crumpled edges and brushing at the streaks. What can I say; I get nervous, I fix my tie.

“I appreciate your help. Bill me for the parts,” I hand her a card from the department and head out to the nurses’ station from earlier. It should have been long enough for news to come forth about Hank.

“Excuse me,” I get one of the staff’s attention. “I was here earlier looking for Hank Anderson. Car accident victim.”

“All the car accident patients have been transferred to the second floor.” The nurse idly flips through a stapled paper, not looking at me.

“May I have a room number?” I ask, getting annoyed.

“I don’t know what room.”

Okay, I’ve had enough. “Look,” my voice grows hot and firm. “I don’t have time, _you_ don’t have time, for us to be standing here circling the same question that I _will_ keep asking you until you finally get me a room number. So why don’t we just skip the part where I annoy you until you cave. Please.” My fingers curl over the countertop. “Help me out.”

That did it. They rake me with a look, considering, and then sigh. The employee ticks on a computer for a moment before scrawling down a room number on a scrap of paper, muttering ‘good luck’, and I book it to the elevator.

The room isn’t bright but the lights are dim and it’s night outside, so there is no extra light to see by. But I know it’s Hank the moment I get to the room. His gruff voice sings to my ears, igniting hope in my chest. I throw open the door, startling the nurse at his bedside.

“Hank!”

Hank is dressed with gauze over his arm, butterfly bandages holding cuts closed on his brow. He is hooked up to an IV, the tube situated and taped onto his left arm. But other than looking pale and scraped up, he seems fine. No casts. No visible incisions. Just what seems to be stitches running across the back of his left arm.

“Connor, you’re here,” Hanks face lifts and he starts to fumble with the IV tube, “Look, my friend is here. You can get this shit off me and let me go home.”

My feet pound the floor before I know what I’m doing. I skid to his side, clutching the bar of the bed. “I was…” tears slip down my cheeks, “worried.” A small squeak in my voice escapes as my words begin to crumble into small hiccups.

“Connor,” Hank sucks in a breath. “I’m glad you’re okay. These bastards wouldn’t tell me what happened to you. I thought…” he rolls his shoulder and grunts, “Well, now we can go–”

“Mr. Anderson,” the nurse blocks him from messing with the tubes again. “You aren’t cleared to leave yet. We’re keeping you overnight until your fever breaks.”

“Horseballs,” Hank snaps. “I’m fine.”

“Hank, please,” I pinch his bloodstained sleeve, “listen to them. You’re sick and…hurt.”

Hank frowns at me, eyes softened by my plea. “Fine,” he flaps his good hand. He considers me for a minute before turning a serious face to the nurse. “Can you give us a minute?”

She sweeps her gaze between us, looking as though she really doesn’t trust us to not just haul out when she’s not looking. But I suppose she sees the look on our faces and nods. “Lights out soon. You’ll have to make it quick.”

“Thanks.”

The nurse leaves, snicking the door shut behind her.

I browse Hank’s injuries noting the flush of his cheeks. I press my hand to his forehead and surprisingly, he lets me. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got hit by a car.” He says bluntly. “Ah, don’t give me that face. It ain’t that bad, really. Just sore.” He sniffles and tilts his head to the side. _“Hrrsheu!”_ he groans, “And my head’s killin me, but they gave me somethin for the pain and I gotta say, I hope it starts to work soon.”

I give a tight nod, my feelings too much of a jigsaw to formulate a thought.

Hank uses his wounded arm to cover a cough, sweat beading on his brow with each ragged breath. He makes a fist and uses it to crush his nose with knuckles, letting out a whisper of an oath.

“H-Hank, you’re going to pop your stitches…”

I watch the muscles flexing near the suture site, the gauze stretching.

_“Hgg **SHEU!”**_ My face creases with worry when the stitching begins to bleed, not a lot but enough to concern. It darkens the gauze and I fumble through a cabinet to seek out more. I scurry back and take his arm, holding it up to wrap the wound some more. Hank growls and shoos me away, taking the cloth for himself to press against the wound. “Don’t fuss over me so much. I’m fine.” His eyes pierce me, full of frustration and...something else.

The silence is thick and viscous, making me feel like my heart is swimming in a vat of anxiety, unable to come up for air, unable to find my way to the top. Unable to open my mouth to breathe a word.

“Hell, Connor,” Hank barks, and I reel back at his tone. “Say something. I can’t have this talk without you.”

Right. The talk. We were talking before…

“In the car,” Hank winds his wrist, “you were in the middle of confessing your undying love or somethin…” I see heat in his cheeks under the beard. Is that from his illness or…?

Wait. I look into his eyes and read him. It hits me. His body language…he is doing exactly what I am doing. Creeping closer until the other moves away. Slowly, gradually we’ve been creeping closer to each other. A shift here. An arm there. Our hands brush, but we pull away, worried we’re breaking barriers.

I catch his eyes and in them I see a world of worry. Hank’s own anxieties and desires and…they’re directed…at me.

“I was…” I swallow. “Yes. I was indeed.”

Hank chuffs and his good hand comes up to the back of my head, fingers delicately twisting in my hair as he pulls me in.

He kisses me. This kiss – _this kiss_ – is the one people talk about. This is the kind of kiss they put in the movies, in the books, in stories that make you long for a kiss that magnitude. For someone to feel so overwhelmed by your existence it just spills out of them in the form of lips and tongue and hands moving – hands pulling. Tugging at clothes. Ripping – oops.

Fuck it. Hank is kissing me. Hank is kissing me. He nips my lip, tugging at me, stirring at my mouth with his tongue. My processor is whirring. I can’t get enough of him. I pour heat into that kiss and show him just how much I have wanted this moment. _This_ is what I should have done in the car.

He leans back. I hungrily chase his kiss, but he is pulling away.

“J-just a sec…” his voice dips low, more of a growl than a whisper. His fingers curl over his mouth and nose with a deep sniff and he stiffens again. _“Heh-RrrSHH!”_ he recovers from the sneeze and apologizes. I can’t stop staring at him, absorbing the look on his face and the way his nostrils are just _so_ pink and curling at just the right angle…

He looks at me as if to come at me for more, but I pull away this time.

I need to tell him. I trust Hank. He makes me feel valued and valid. He deserves to know.

“Hank,” I dip my head. “There’s something…” Oh how do I do this? Factual? Emotional? I don’t know what to call it even.

“Hey,” Hank’s eyes crimp and he moves to wind his hand over mine. “What’s that face for? Are you nervous? Because that’s completely normal.”

“No,” my gaze flicks up to him. “Well a little, but for a different reason.” I gulp at the air. _Just do it. Get it over with._ “There’s something…happening to me. A, uh, reaction. I’m not sure why but when you…sneeze…it makes me feel things.”

“What kind of things?”

“In the car,” my cheeks heat with thirium. “It made me want to kiss you. Not that I didn’t already want to, but…it exacerbated my desires.” That was the best way to put it. “I’m sorry. This is new to me and I don’t know what it means.”

Hank is silent for a moment and I fear the worst, but instead of more questions, Hank lets out a burst of laughter. He laughs as if he had just found a piece of a puzzle that had been missing.

“Sounds like,” he prods my chest, “You have a fetish.” His mirthful eyes roll up to the ceiling, “Fancy that. Androids have gods _and_ devils.”

My eyes widen, “Is this…bad?!”

“Naw, it ain’t bad, it’s just…uh, not considered normal. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Connor. It just makes you more…heh, human.” He smiles at me, eyes full of warmth.

My lips twist in a smirk. “I shouldn’t google this, should I?”

“Surprised you haven’t already.”

“A lot has been going on,” I argue. “And I…was nervous.”

Hank puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t be nervous.” His eyes lock onto mine. “I’m not.”

“You’re not…? You don’t think this is strange?” I ask.

“What I think,” Hank plasters on a leer,” is now I finally have something to get your attention.”

My brow furrows. “Get my attention?” As if he didn’t already have it. “You…want my attention?”

Hank sputters. “I guess you wouldn’t notice; being deviant is new for ya. Yeah, I like you, Connor. Wanted to do something about it for a while. Make a move maybe. Thought about it. But you’re confused, vulnerable. Just learning your emotions. I didn’t wanna take advantage or push you into something that wasn’t there.”

My fingers trace his palm, the buzz of skin driving my core, “It’s there.”

The door clicks open and our heads swing to see the nurse peeking in at us.

“It’s past visiting hours.”

I look to Hank. “Are we okay?”

He pats me, “Course.”

I give his hand another squeeze and brush his arm – a promise of things to come, and I leave.

Relief feels good. The press of anxiety has left me, knowing that Hank is okay and resting.

_We kissed._

My mind is still exploding with joy. I haven’t felt this elated in a long time. I’m actually smiling at people as I wander through the hospital on my way to the lobby. There's a spring in my step and I hadn't even noticed there wasn't one before until now. I’m just about to crest the archway from the hall and someone bumps my arm.

“My, my,” she chuckles, “Using that arm pretty well now?” It is Doctor Leslie. “How’s your friend?”

I beam at her. “Yes. And he is fine. He’s in recovery. No major injuries.”

Her smile seems to slip a bit, like a shadow flitting past the sun. “Well,” her warmth returns as quickly as it had blipped, “I’m glad you’re happy.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and something catches my eye. Her tattoo. I can see it now, fully if briefly. It is a triangle with an A in the center.

It doesn’t take long for recognition to zap me. I freeze as she walks away, remembering where I’d seen that tattoo before.

The suspect from the restaurant. The busboy. He had the same tattoo. My spine quakes as I rake my eyes over the crowd, seeking the doctor out, but she’s gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor infiltrate a party where their suspicions have led them in their chase to find out who is behind the murder.

Markus always seems to have a pensive look on his face but as he stares at the sketch of the A tattoo, he looks even more ruminative. 

“Markus?”

His name seems to pull him out of the trance. “Yes -- sorry,” he palms his face and sighs. Markus has been busy. I was surprised he managed to work in a sudden meeting with me on such short notice. He’s been dealing with the brunt of the revolution, leading the deviants and guiding our people to peace. The world must be heavy.

He pulls out a square of cardstock with blue ribbon tied around the corner. 

“There’s a gathering,” he points at the card, “Invitation only. The group is called Ascension.”

I flip the card over. “Local?” 

He shakes his head. “It’s in Illinois.”

Great. Six hours away. At least, driving. I pocket the invitations. 

“Thank you, Markus.”

He pierces me with a look, “I hope you’ve got a plan, Connor. Even down there, people know your face. Your model.”

“Hm. You have a point. I can’t just show up. I’ll need to prepare.”

“You don’t have a lot of time either. That gathering is tomorrow.”

I nod. “We’ll work something out.” I offer my arm to clasp. “Thank you, again. We would have lost our lead if not for you.”

“I do what I can when I can.” His eyes meet mine and he tilts his head. “Anything else you need? You look like something’s bothering you.”

I chew my cheek, unsure as to whether it is appropriate to ask advice when he is as busy as he is.

But...wouldn’t we all be busy, either now or in the future? Waiting isn’t really an option for me since I came clean to Hank yesterday, and Markus is the only android I know personally who has been in a relationship. Plus, I trust him.

“Markus,” I feel my gut twist, “How did you know...what to do in your relationship?”

Markus chuckles. He actually smiles and I don’t think I have seen him do so since I have known him. 

“I thought you were going to tell me bad news.” He shifts and laces his fingers. “My partners and I came together during hard times. That can affect a relationship -- for good or bad. When you fall for someone after seeing them in a certain role, it can be jarring to see them outside of that role. Like you’re watching a different person almost.”

I try not to let my worry seep into my face as he speaks. But Markus...he notices things. “Look, Connor,” he places a hand on my back, “It’s hard, coming into your own as a deviant. You don’t know how to act or feel. Just...be yourself. Hank will understand -- as long as you communicate openly.”

My eyes widen. “I never said Hank was--”

Markus shakes his head and laughs. He stands now, “I’ll see you, Connor. Good luck with the recon.”

I watch him go, replaying what he said in my head. 

He knew I was talking about Hank. Are we that obvious? How many people know?

I tug out the card. Irrelevant. What matters right now is getting the ball rolling on this gathering.

 

Markus was right: I can’t simply show up to the gathering looking like...well, me. I am recognizable nationwide, if not further. I used to be the only Connor model, but that was before the new models -- the RK900s -- were found and freed from Cyberlife. I am the only RK800 model out there, but luckily I look just like the RK900s when I dress like them. 

The high collar feels weird on my neck and I can’t help tugging on it as I walk. The style is similar but I much prefer my old suit. I feel a bit out of my own shoes, but probably not as much as Hank does. He looks beautiful. I mean face-splitting gorgeous. He really groomed up for this event, trimming his beard and combing it so straight you could count the hairs from a yard away. A half ponytail clasped in the back makes him look elegant. His blazer fits him like a hug, crisp cuffs dancing in the light from the streetlamps. He looks the part of ‘fancy pants’ moreso than I would have thought him capable. 

“Connor...” I blink at him waving a palm in my face. Oops. I was staring. “Are we going?”

“S-sorry,” I feel thirium heating my cheeks. I straighten my collar and pull out the invitations from my jacket. Hank grabs his and looks it over.

“Tibby?” he eyes me.

“It’s short for Tibalt.”

Hank glowers. “I can’t stick with my own name?”

“The invitations cannot be changed. Besides, what if someone recognizes your name?”

“We’re in Illinois, Connor. And I’m wearing goddamn loafers.”

I figured he’d kick up a fuss -- both about the name and dressing up. But Hank is a professional. I knew he’d follow through regardless.

The establishment isn’t what I thought it would be. A church with a ballroom entrance -- the stage for the gathering. Small homey hallways branch off the large room, roped off with ‘no entry’ signs that just scream EXPLORE ME! Round white tables are scootched together for seating. A few members tucked under the lacey tablecloth snack on cheese and pastries. Large centerpieces with chrysanthemums decorate the tables and buffet station adding a pop of color to the otherwise dull venue. 

There is even a dance floor. A few people are milling or toe-tapping in the center, shoes squeal from a couple dead center holding hands and giggling as they attempt to sway with the music. 

“A loooot of people here,” Hank rasped. “Thinkin about Boaty McBoatface over there. He might know something.” He pointed to a man in a Captain’s getup speaking violently with an uncomfortable looking younger man.

“Why don’t you mingle with him?” I suggest. “I’ll browse for familiar faces.”

We part ways and I wind through the crowd. 

The stage is a raised platform with a single microphone. Probably for speeches. Lectures. Announcements. No one is up there presently. Most of the members are standing or sitting in the crowded area, chatting, laughing, drinking. I scan their faces. There aren’t many I have seen before. At least...well, I’ve seen some of the android models before, but they all look like very happy deviants. I don’t know these people.

A tall lady catches my eye. High cheekbones and a smile that turns patients into friends. Doctor Leslie is in this crowd. She would surely recognize me, but if I play it right she just might think I am any other Connor model. RK900. Would she recognize Hank? No, she never saw him or us together. I make sure to avoid her just in case anyway.

Great towering windows covered by white curtains glow pink by the stained glass through them. The ceiling looks like it could be opened -- like one of those sunroofs in cars. Drizzles of rain peck the glass, casting a green glow upon the dance floor.

I search for an available seat. There aren’t many. And I’m distracted. Hank may be across the hall but I can hear him as if he were right next to me. I would blame good auditory sensors but I know by now it’s more than that. Because I’ve heard him make that sound before. The trill of a throat clear. The sigh, a precursor to the real reason my ears are honing in on him. Then it hits me like hard voltage.

_“Hk- **RSH!”**_ The scintillating sound makes my drivers lag. My head snaps to Hank’s position. He is still mid-convo with Captain. I shouldn’t interrupt but I can’t help stare at the rough grinding of the back of his thumb against his nose, an attempt to saw away another hitch-- there it goes. I probably know there will be a second before Hank even does. 

He braces for it. I can see it in the stiffness of his inflated chest, the way his teeth grind out what’s left of his control. The scoop of air as his voice snags just before--

“Connor~!”

I spin on the call of my name, brain still hotly focused on Hank but my senses distorted enough to barely register the sneeze behind me.

A squirrely man is smiling at me, hand extended for a shake. I don’t want to touch anyone here -- they could be intrusive androids wanting to read me or share memories, which is just bad for investigation. 

I nod at him wishing I had a drink as an excuse not to shake. 

“Awh don’t be shy; it’s me, Jack!”

I am fairly decent at banking names. This man is not on my list. He must know another Connor. 

“I’m sorry...I don’t…” I let the sentence finish itself with my expression. _I don’t know you._

Jack’s eyes go wide. “Oh, excuse me,” he clamps a hand over his mouth. “Wrong Connor I guess.” He swears. “I don’t mean all of you look alike!”

I wave it off. It’s not that I don’t care -- I do. It’s actually a pretty big topic in therapy. Humans not recognizing different androids of the same model. But now isn’t the time to have a blowout about it.

I have to ask him questions. But I need to be careful. If Hank and I ask too many specific questions we’ll be suspicious.

“Are you a fresh deviant?” he asks me.

“Uh, yes. Last week…” I pull on my own anxiety to sound convincing. “And I’m...nervous.”

He offers me a comforting smile. “Awh, that’s super normal. Is this your first time, then?”

“Yes.”

“It’s my third. I’ve been going since almost day one.”

_Hm._ “Have there been a lot of these meetings?”

He seems more than willing to share his knowledge. “Different regions have different dates, but I think there have been four. They usually try once a week.” He gestures at the crowd, “We have a lot of recruits since then. Did you go to orientation?” 

The answer jumps to my lips, “Yes.”

“Oh, recently?” he doesn’t wait for me to answer, “Did you have Patrick? God that guy can drone on…” he laughs and then looks alarmed. “I am _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to speak ill of one of the Chosen.”

My LED whirrs. _Chosen?_

“Who are these Chosen, exactly?” I fidget nervously. “Sorry, I’m still new to this.”

“Oh no problem. It’s a lot to follow, especially for newbies. The Chosen are our heralds. They decide when we’re ready.”

Now _that_ I couldn’t get away with asking about. I feign understanding. “Right. Of course. Thanks.” I thumb the buffet table. “I’m going to go get something to eat. It was nice meeting you, Jack.”

“Likewise~” he thankfully allows me to part and inch towards the table. I get a ways away before I veer off and look for Hank. I eye where Captain was but he’s not there anymore. I pick through the crowd some more seeking him out. 

I pick up snippets of conversation as I move through groups of people. Someone is talking about conversion. 

“Do you think they’ll do more tonight?”

I assume they’re talking about deviants. Do they make a showcase out of converting deviants here?

“Rob is speaking tonight. He usually does a few after.”

“Think it’ll ever be us?”

The other person shrugs. I squint at them. I do a scan. These people are human. Why are they talking about conversion like that? 

I catch another group talking about this Rob, who I can only assume is one of those ‘Chosen’. 

“He’s wonderful. His voice makes me feel so calm.”

“I know, I’ve been waiting for this event all week. I’ve been so anxious.”

So this Rob makes people feel calmer? I wonder what he says to them. 

I want to find Hank. This whole thing is giving me a bad feeling. 

A face tugs at my attention. I tilt my head at a fellow android, one I know. Freckles and red hair, his curious smile when he sees me makes me feel both antsy and relieved at the same time. His name is Freddy and I know him from therapy. His familiar face is nice in a sea of unknown but there’s no way I can pass for anyone else to him. We are close and he recognizes me instantly. 

It would be rude to avoid him after we’ve spotted each other, so I head towards him giving him my kindest eyes and my ‘winning’ smile. He is holding a drink -- blue liquid tinged with a shimmer. 

“Freddy,” I chuckle, “Fancy seeing you here.”

He uses a pinky to point at me, “Connor! Wow, you joined Ascension?” he gives me a once-over and his face crimps, “What the hell are you wearing?”

“Formal wear?” I pinch the front of the high collar suit. “Why are you here? I didn’t see you last session.”

“I was at orientation.” Freddy lifts a shoulder. “Therapy is good and all but...it’s just not enough, ya know?”

First rule of gathering information: agree with people.

“Yeah, I agree,” I nod. “Especially with everything we’ve been through.” 

Freddy tips his head vigorously and sips his drink. He takes a small gulp and pauses, placing two fingers in front of his mouth and giving a small _“ahm-oh!”_ He looks flustered, “Excuse me, how rude. Let’s get you one,” he takes two steps towards the buffet table where a vast bowl of the blue liquid swirls within, a ladle resting on the glass rim. 

I lift my hand, “It’s alright--”

“No really,” Freddy sets his drink down and goes about pouring me one. “You _need_ to have some of this. It’s great.”

It looks like biofluid. I don’t know how that could be ‘great’ unless they’ve flavored it with something creamy. He hands me a cupfull and I’m not rude. I take it. Plus I need to blend in. It’ll help having a drink like the others.

I sip at it, and it’s good. It must be flavored. My taste sensors tingle with the richness. Most basic biofluid is bland and feels like thick water. This was more akin to a melted strawberry shake. 

“Good right?” Freddy gulps his and I follow suit, nodding.

Now that I look more like I belong, I need to prod for information. Something small. “Who’s speaking today?”

“I think it’s Rob but it might be Tony.”

Now a bit more. “Who have you heard speak so far?”

Freddy taps his cheek, “Bethany did the orientation, so I guess that counts. How about you?”

I go with my gut. “Rob did my orientation, so I guess I’ll be seeing him twice.” 

Now to use my gathered knowledge to round out what I know.

“Hey, do you know if they’re going to do conversions today?”

Freddy purses his lips. “Hm...this is quite a big gathering. So, probably. I can’t believe how many people are here. It's so fulfilling. I am a little scared of going into the Cloud, but knowing all of these people will be there too -- that’s comforting.”

I push down a spiral of worry and focus on riding the glee that comes with the success of an interaction. It keeps my LED from flashing yellow. 

I sip at my drink to have something to do as we nod to each other awkwardly. I’ve almost drained it by the time I feel like it’s been long enough I can part from his company and find Hank. 

“I’m going to head to the buffet,” I tell him, gesturing to my nearly empty drink.

He smiles, “Enjoy the speech! See you around.”

I nudge through the crowd again, stepping around a few more people dancing. The music has picked up and people are growing more active in the center. As I pass, I notice the dance floor looks rather inviting. I feel a pull towards it as well as those within. I feel like it would be a neat idea to strike up conversation with some of the strangers. They seem like nice folks...

Hank is at the buffet table now. I should go find out what he learned. I approach him; he is busy stuffing his face with cold cuts.

“Hank,” my brow knits, “Are you eating _just_ salami slices?”

Hank tears a bite off of the pink meat, “It’s really good! Try some,” he flops a slice in front of my face and I wave him off.

“Oh hey,” he holds out a glass of champagne, “Test this for poison, would ya?”

I dip my good fingers into the fizzy drink and taste. “The only poison in that is alcohol.”

Hank nods, “Good.” He knocks his head back, gulping it down and sighing, “Two more of those and I might get through this party.”

“It’s not so bad,” I gaze around. There is food, decent music, people are getting more comfortable as time progresses and as they imbibe. Something about the chirpy music and the gleeful people makes me...giddy. The lights are so full and bouncy, and it looks... _fun._

“Did you learn anything?” Hank asks.

I sweep mischievous eyes at him. “Dance with me and I’ll tell you.”

“Seriously?” he looks around at the people moseying along the dance floor. “I’ve never really been good at dancing.”

“I’ll lead.”

“You know how to dance?”

I toss up a smirk and wink. “I have many features~”

Hank gives me a curious yet coy look and answers my grin. “Alright. Show me what you got.”

My hand meets Hank’s, fingers lacing and curling around each other. Hank steps warily into me, our shoulders brushing. Hank is looking at me in a way I can only interpret as...shy? Nervous? Hank Anderson?? I take him up, wrapping my free arm around his waist and I take a step. Hank stares down at my feet and moves his, following me.

I laugh, “Hank,” I trace my fingers along his chin and pull his head up with a caress, “Eyes up. On me.”

Hank chuffs, “Sorry. I don’t do this much.”

“Just feel the music. Listen.” I press my head to his shoulder and nuzzle him, the buzz of his skin kicking my gears into mania. Being this close to Hank isn’t something new for me. We’ve hugged before, lain together before, argued and gotten in each other’s faces...it’s been a pretty normal thing for us to be close. But, as I take his hand in mine, wrap my arm around his back, I feel a heat that spins my head and flushes my neck. I remember the kiss we shared at the hospital.

I lean in close, guiding our movements, pulling him into me, our feet padding in a slow circle. Hank keeps glancing at his feet. He shuffles to mirror me, face falling into an awkward grimace.

In a spurt of bravery, I move my hand up to cup his cheek. “You’re doing fine,” I say.

I swear I see him blush and it highlights his cheeks just _so._ Gosh he is...pretty. I’ve always thought Hank is attractive, but now? With his hair pulled back, groomed and in a crisp suit, he _radiates._

“You’re pretty~” the words slip from me and I find that I’m grinning.

Hank laughs. “Not somethin’ I’m used to hearing.”

My heart thumps and I press into him, laying my head on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each inspiration like a ticking clock. My arms tighten around him and I drink in his scent -- this moment, how much I’ve longed for this without realizing it.

I start to feel a bit dizzy. Is it from the dancing in such a tight circle? 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m with Hank and he is...sniffling? How long has he been doing that? I feel my limbs tingling as my head cranes to watch him. His nostrils are doing a dance of their own, flaring and scrunching, his teeth grinding as he attempts to will away the feeling.

My breath tickles my lips as my teeth chit together, “You’re driving me _crazy,_ Lieutenant…”

“Sorry,” his voice is a low rumble, “I _itch_ …” 

A rush shoots up my body and I feel...excited. I lean up and notch my nose into his neck, thoughts zooming from my mind before I can process them. 

“Mh~?”

Hank’s brow knits and he backs up enough to see my face. “Did you just _moan?_ ” 

I had. And it wasn’t going to be the last time.

_“Hrg…_ ” his sleeve scrapes at his nose, the unfulfilling motion only serving to stagnate his problem. He crushes his face into the back of his hand and I can hear him sipping air. _“Hnnn...Rhh- **EKRshh** -eu!”_ The way his body jolts - especially when he is still holding me by the waist - I feel it tingle me entirely. Warmth spreads around my neck and face and...other areas. My throat is a desert. 

I lick my lips and take a breath. I want to kiss him again. I want to kiss his lips and face and neck until there is no revealed skin left to kiss and so I would have to seek more--

_“HRSHH-eh!”_ another sneeze rips at Hank’s throat and I do my very best to keep my knees from turning to jello.

“Think I’m allergic to these flowers,” he sniffles.

A sudden capriciousness overcomes me and without missing a beat, I snag one of the long-stemmed mums from a nearby table and tuck it behind my ear. 

“You mean these?” I blink innocently at him.

Hank gives me a confused look now. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I feel fine. Great actually. Elated. Like we should take this party home and--

Party. We are at a party. Why are we here? 

“Connor,” Hank whispers in that sexy low voice, “We can’t arouse suspicion.” 

Oh. _Oh._ Right. We’re on a super secret mission. _Whoops!_

“Does this mean we should stop dancing?” I pout.

“Somethin’s gotten into you.” Hank sounds so serious. Aw. 

He places a hand on my forehead as if to check for a fever. I frown, thinking hard. I feel...I suppose I would call it dizzy, but it is more like my eyes are traveling too fast for my brain to keep up with what I am seeing. I want to do things I wouldn’t normally do. I feel like taking Hank’s cheeks in my hands and just--

“Connor…?”

I open my mouth, the right words not coming to me. “I’m...not sure.”

“You’re acting drunk,” Hank purses his lips, “Can androids get drunk?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never experienced something like this.”

“How do you feel?”

“I feel like…” I reach for words to describe it, “I feel like I just got off a rollercoaster,” I say, remembering the last time I felt like this. 

“Well let’s get you some water, or uh, biofluid?”

Shock impales me. “The biofluid…” I stall. “It was...shimmering.”

“Somebody spiked _biofluid?”_

My head swims. “I…” I am suddenly very aware that we are still on the dance floor...not dancing.

“Hank…” My eyes flick the crowd. “People are staring.”

“Oh,” Hank follows my gaze and clears his throat. He puts hands around my waist and starts moving, shuffling his feet as I did earlier. “Better?”

I nod, letting him lead this time. “Alright,” he locks eyes with me, “Focus,” his voice pulls my attention out of my fog, “Focus on me and we’ll get through this. You still haven’t told me what you’ve learned.” His hand squeezes mine as he tugs me to the left. He’s getting more comfortable doing this waltz.

“Who’d you talk to?” he asks, movements growing more fluid.

“Ahm, one man told me that this isn’t the only meeting facility, but it’s commonly used. And there’s an orientation.”

“Orientation? Like with school?”

“Sort of. Initiation of some sort. This group has multiple leaders. They’re called Chosen.” I point to another couple doing a spin and practice on Hank. He takes it in stride, drifting away from me with only a little clumsiness. Our fingertips graze each other as Hank spins. Then I pull him back into me, winding him up in my arm before clutching his body into mine. I want to squeeze a hug but the dance goes on. 

Hank resumes a hold around my waist and shoulder. “This sounds culty as fuck.”

“I also ran into one of my friends from therapy.”

Hank looks alarmed. “That’s...bad.”

“Why bad?”

“Connor, this place seems…” he pauses to chew a cheek. “Tell me what they said.”

“He described his fears and spoke of some Cloud. He is afraid of it but also...anticipating. His emotions were unclear.”

“Yeah, Connor this group, whatever they are, sounds like they’re preying on scared folks who feel isolated or alone.” His voice creeps lower, “I don’t like the vibes I’m getting from this.”

My lip curls, “Should we snoop~?”

He chuckles, “Don’t think we’ll get many more answers if we don’t.”

I graze my eyes over the hall. There is a guard, an android, pacing the bend of the roped off hall. If I can get close, I can incapacitate him.

“That easy?” Hank swings to the left.

“Not quite. I will be disabled as well. You will need to reboot me after I knock him out.”

Hank looks concerned, deep creases forming along his brow. “Will it hurt you?”

I smile, lifting his hand to my lips and sneaking a kiss. “I’ll be fine, Hank.”

“Alright. Then I got your back.”

We shimmy away from the dance floor. I hold Hank at arm’s length, finishing the pose just near the server entrance. And then he lets me go, and I slip inside the hall. My chest is light, even with my panting breaths as I attempt to regain full capacity after that. Oh, that was first date level dancing. I wonder if Hank saw it that way too. If he is feeling the same as me -- barely able to pry myself from his arms. I wasn’t ready to be done with our lilt but Hank was right. We have an investigation to do. 

We glide towards the guard in the hall, rounding about and acting like we’re sort of lost, pointing at an adjacent branch and frowning. 

“I don’t know, maybe it’s that way…”

Hank steps up to the guard, initiating a conversation, asking where the bathroom is. I sidle behind, making certain no one can see us from outside the hallway. I clear the skin on my hand. It dissolves like wiping away a fresh spill. I hold my hand to the back of the guard’s neck and touch him.

A shock of cold slices through my body. I wobble, gasping. My vision segments and grows fuzzy, like seeing through cotton. Then, I am on the floor blinking through darkness.

I peel my eyes open and see Hank, brow knit with worry as he helps me sit up.

“You okay?” his voice quivers with anxiety.

“I’m fine,” I wobble to stand and toss him a thumbs up. Hank plucks an ID card from the unconscious guard and waves it at me. 

“Alright, let’s do this.”

The hall branches off into three areas. The left and right seem to go farther into the building whereas the long hall shoots north quite a ways. Hank takes left and I veer right. As soon as I enter this room I know there is nothing here. Benches and confession booths are the only things here. I head back out and down the long hall. 

After a bit of walking, well sneaking really, I stop short. A small office is locked in the back of the hall. It is moments like these I wish I could communicate to Hank like other androids. I don’t have a secure way of telling him what I’ve found. I tether to his phone and send him a message -- one that only he would understand. 

_“Feathers in long hall.”_

After a bit of a wait, Hank shows up, face screwed into a knot. “I take it you found something important?”

I grin at him, a tiny laugh bubbling from me. “Don’t look so perturbed, Lieutenant~” I poke his cheek when he gets close. 

“Focus, detective,” he fumbles with the ID card and swipes it across the pad. 

In we go. 

It’s a simple room, an office. A desk stretches most of the length of the room, small baubles and trinkets adorn it as well as a few file folders and a computer setup. I pick through the files, only turning up some information on a few members. The file is labeled ‘week 4 conversions’. 

It doesn’t tell me about the conversion, only tidbits about the members. One of them is stamped _READY._

“Watch there be a secret door somewhere.” 

I rifle through some more papers but turn up nothing else. 

“Like in Young Frankenstein?”

Hank beams, _“Exactly_ like in Young Frankenstein.”

“Hank,” I call to him soft but firm. He shifts over to look and I point out the stamp. 

“Ready for what?”

“Whatever this means, I think it has to do with the Cloud.”

“Hah!” Hank looks rather proud of himself, “Called it.” 

A mechanical whirr makes my pumps speed up, icy claws of anxiety dragging me into a brief panic before I realize that Hank has activated something on purpose. That something is a trapdoor next to the desk. It opens down into a room under the floor complete with a rickety looking ladder.

I take the rail, ready to descend but Hank holds a palm over my chest protectively.

“You know the drill,” he scoots me away. “Me first.”

“But,” I sputter, “Did you bring your gun?”

“Let’s hope I won’t need it. Now, follow me.”

We descend the ladder into a basement that honestly doesn’t look like a basement at all. At least not the kind that would be in a movie. No musty books, no lightbulb swinging from a cord. No rickety ceiling.  
This room is enormous, at least bigger than the room above it, and as soon as we crest the landfall, lights flicker on and bathe the room in its fluorescent glow. Computers line the walls, their blue glowing keyboards indicate they are active and possibly recently used. A machine in the far back resembles ones I remember from Cyperlife. I recognize an assembly machine when I see it. 

Hank fumbles around the wall where a few switches sit, and then another mechanical whirr creaks above us. The trapdoor begins to close over our heads, lights flickering back down to dim the room.

“Well,” Hank shrugs and begins to explore.

I browse as well, and it doesn’t take me long to find them.

Androids stand in a row along a backlit wall, eyes closed, LEDs dark, perfectly still and lifeless. 

I tug Hank’s sleeve and point. He nods and gestures me over. I snag a peek at him rubbing his nose and sniffling. Hey, can’t blame me for noticing.

I approach the androids and inspect them. They are all different models and don’t seem to be active. I check their hardware -- basic stuff. Pumps, major circuits, cords. All functional. So...why are they off?

Hank heads over to me as I place two fingers against the temple of one of the androids. “What’s the verdict?”

“Hank...they’re not alive. They’re not even active.” I tap one android’s temple. “There is no data in them. None. Even an inactive android has some data. Not these.”

Hank wanders over to a computer. “How do I…” he begins to press buttons but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let me take a look.”

“These have to be _for_ something. Maybe that’s where the android data is.”

I shake my head, “N-no, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“Because those androids were active. Recently. For their data to be stripped it would require a malfunction I can’t even fathom.” I clack at the console keyboard, working my way into the system. My focus isn’t the best while inebriated but Hank’s not making it any easier.

_“Hh..ghh,_ ah fuck--” Hank’s voice is rough, a low purr with a hint of gravel. _“HRGSH!”_

I can’t help it. I creak around to look. And he’s staring at me, swiping a finger under his nose with a knowing look.

“Focus, detective.”

I whip back around, cheeks flushed, and try really hard to pretend I wasn’t ungodly amounts of distracted by that.

“These androids…” Hank muses, “They were talking about conversions up there, right?”

“Androids and humans,” I say. “Which is weird. They spoke of a Cloud.”

Hank frowned, “And a cloud’s like...data storage. Right?”

“Well--”

The floorboards above us creak and muffled voices hum through the thin wood. People are entering the room we were just in and if we can hear them this clearly, they will likely hear us.

“Fuck!” I hear Hank mutter before he staples a finger over his mouth. I return a _‘no shit’_ look.

Steps clip above us, descending through the hall. “...mmm..” They’re getting closer to us, probably inside the office room now. “Can’t tell you how please I am about this. I’ve been waiting and hoping…”

A rustle and a creak as someone sits down at the desk. 

“Of course. You have been with us since the beginning. There is no doubt you are ready. We just have to take care of some paperwork…check your will...”

Will? What are they about to do to this person?

Hank creeps closer to me, risking a step, making as little noise as possible, sliding his feet instead of taking thundering footfalls. 

The voices continue above, “Have you experienced any malfunctions as of late? Blackouts?”

“Um, well…”

Hank takes a couple more steps towards me and I hear the soft whisper of a sniffle. A breath sizzles from his lips and my pumps start to grind in my chest. 

Oh, rA9, this is absolutely the worst time for that. I want to say something but words clog in my throat.

He’s gliding closer to me, one hand reaching out as if he wants to grab my arm, the other hand in a more sinful spot, fingers tucked under his nose, palm crushing a grunt.

“H-Hank…” I whisper with a silent voice. I swallow a buzz in my throat and watch in the dim illumination, the screens cascading shadows over his crimped visage. I can barely make out the gleam of his watery eyes as he squints against the no doubt unrelenting itch. I am frozen between licks of panic broiling in my gut. 

Hank’s fingers graze my chest and I cannot fathom why he wants to touch me right now. He dips into my pocket and fishes out the handkerchief tucked within.

Oh.

My wires burn, I can’t help the flush of thirium heating my face.

_“Hff-!”_ Hank drags out a breath, catching himself as he swaps hands to the slim cloth and covers his mouth and nose with it. Both hands cup his face now and he looks like he’s doing his best to stifle a rousing _“HR-KMFF!”_

I swing my head up, listening for any sign they heard.

“--and that was three weeks ago. So, recently..”

I sag with relief, but Hank doesn’t. He is using both thumbs to massage either side of his nostrils and I can very clearly hear another ragged inhale. Great his seconds are usually much much

_“HK-- **MMSHH** -Huh!”_

_Stronger..._

“--hear that?” the overhead voice lilts.

A spike of dread pummels me and throws my components into chaos. I spin, searching the room seeking options. I throw a gesture to the machines and hurry towards one. Hank picks up on my plan instantly, shoes scraping the cement as he scurries to line up next to the inactive androids. 

I slide into the prep area for the assembly machine and ghost my body. I worry about Hank. He’s not going to be able to dead lock himself like I can. He is human. He has to breathe.

But there’s no time to fret about it or second guess. I hear the people upstairs calling as we take our places, straightened and stiff. 

Full bleeding lights singe my optic component and I work hard to keep myself still and unaffected by the glare. The rumble of the trapdoor whirrs my gears and overclocks me. I am panicking. And it must show. 

I should have known better because as soon as the pair of them step off the ladder, their eyes fixate on me and my red LED.

They make a move towards me and my arms fly up to protect myself.

“Hey!” Hank’s sharp cry snaps all of our attention to him as he charges one of the guards, fist ready to cream the first jaw it finds.

“Hank--no!” I try to rush to assist but something stabs into my neck. Cold, hard metal sinks into my skull and I am suddenly frozen, white fuzzy lines marring my vision. 

“H-Hank…” Darkness crackles at my brain and I feel my arms being lifted by the machine surrounding me. I cry out but it is swallowed by the buzz of electricity flooding my processor.

The last thing I see is Hank, locked in a punching match with a guard reaching for their gun.

And then I black out.


End file.
